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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968513">Turbulence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nops/pseuds/nops'>nops</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Formula 1 RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Addiction, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Sex, Slow Build, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:21:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968513</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nops/pseuds/nops</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After winning the F2 championship, George never thought he'd find himself as a backmarker, but in the season after his rookie year he looks for ways he can feel in control despite everyone else's successes.</p><p>AKA George is angsty</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Leclerc/George Russell, Lando Norris/Max Verstappen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. burning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! I'm pretty new to fanfics but wanted to share some writing and I am heavily into F1 haha</p><p>Any comments or kudos greatly appreciated :) </p><p>Tags/characters will be added as I continue but I've put the ones I have planned in there (not all of them are in every chapter) - it hasn't been beta read but I like to think I do a pretty good job of rereading (sorry if there are any mistakes!) - set in a non-COVID 2020 but the race calendar is artistic licence ;) and Claire is still at Williams until the end of the season!</p><p>Hoping to update once or twice a week (midweek and Saturdays/Sundays) but I work and study - but I will post a short chapter if I'm struggling that week as ya gal needs her creative downtime and this is it!</p><p>I've never written in RPF before but goes without saying that these are real people and this is a work of fiction, please don't share fanfics with them! If they want to read them, they will find them</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            “Is this okay?” George panted to the woman underneath him, pushing a hand hard into her shoulder blade and driving her head into the mattress. She nodded as best she could as he grabbed a bundle of hair into his fist, pulling hard as he thrust into her. “Are you sure this is okay?”<br/>
            “Yes, I am sure, fuck!” She almost shouted her reply, voice muffled by the bed sheets she was talking into.</p><p>He flopped onto the bed beside her, desperately trying to remember her name from the bar. She straightened her body out and laid her face into the hotel pillow and reached her hand out to trace the muscles on his stomach. He felt hyper aware of her movements as guilt started to overwhelm him and he rested his fingers on the top of her hand for a few seconds, not as a sign of affection but as a reality check. He’d really reached this low.</p><p>He picked his phone off of the bedside table and texted Alex:</p><p>
  <em>            Are you asleep?</em>
</p><p>He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up, pulling on the pair of boxers he’d discarded twenty minutes previously, in a crappy attempt to hide his naked body from the one laid on the bed as if she hadn’t just been worshipping it. He made eye contact with the girl and pointed towards the bathroom, without saying a word.</p><p>The shower was set as hot as George could bear, steaming up the bathroom mirror before he even stepped into it. His hands held him up against the cold wall, and he started to feel the burning hot water roll down his body, punishing him for what he’d just done. Each drop a tiny knife in his skin, forcing him to regain control of his hazy brain, the pain diluting the alcohol and post-sex hormones. He scrubbed himself with a hotel-issued, too-soft flannel and wished his skin would slough off and his bones melt into a puddle.</p><p>Toto had taken him for dinner that evening, to discuss the race on a more personal level than the Williams debrief could. George never liked to talk about his headspace, especially not with Toto, who could make or break his career, but he knew it benefitted everyone to know what feelings were going around. It had felt more like a character assassination, though, his manager seemingly more calm than usual, but more critical. A few weeks previously, George had asked him to be more honest with him, but he hated the undertone of rejection he knew was there even more now. He should’ve – could’ve – done more with the car. Although Toto said it wasn’t true, he knew that he could have been offered a contract from a better team by now had he just pushed a little more, worked a bit harder, had he not made so many stupid mistakes. Maybe if he hadn’t crashed behind the safety car in Imola. He pushed too hard. He didn’t push enough. ‘Sometimes, it is the car’ – Toto would say to him to placate him after a bad race, in that condescending way only he could nail. That sentence only served to tell George it was all his fault. He believed he could win one day, on a good day. He tried to have less of the bad days.</p><p>All the dinner had achieved that evening was making George feel less in control than ever.</p><p>Up until F1, he’d been able to dictate his career – everything that he wanted, he knew he had to work at practicing more, finding the right events, and talking to the right people, to get results.</p><p>The only thing he’d figured since was that he could manipulate his brain to make sex feel like he was regaining control, regardless of his results. His girlfriend had left him after his rookie season; he’d struggled to cope with the shitty results from the shitty car he didn’t realise he’d signed on for, and that the two other rookies he had beaten the year before in F2 had been thriving. It got to the point where there was so little of the loved-up couple stuff and so much of the endorphin-releasing sex that she said it wasn’t the kind of relationship she wanted anymore, and she had no choice when he said things wouldn’t change.</p><p>And that had turned, in his second year, into meeting strangers – willing participants – at parties and hotel bars on race-day Sunday evenings, a harmless way of ridding of the feeling of failure. They generally didn’t care about results or return on investment and he could forget about the pressure of trying to keep Williams afloat for an hour or less before panicking and kicking them out of his hotel room.</p><p>He returned to the bedroom with a towel around his waist, still dripping wet from the shower.</p><p>He was relieved to see the woman had let herself out in the meantime, leaving her number on a note by the side of the bed with a message:</p><p>
  <em>            If you’re in town again</em>
</p><p>He ripped the front page off of the notepad and crumpled it up before throwing it towards the bin on the other side of the room and watched it ricochet off the rim onto the floor. He had no appetite to repeat.</p><p>He checked his phone for the reply from Alex. Nothing. He’d had a bad race, too, and wasn’t at the party. The potential of losing a seat for next year had taken the life out of him – it had suppressed what little social contact George’s already introverted friend had craved. He had probably drowned his sorrows in minibar alcohol and passed out alone, George thought. He wondered what was sadder, that, or fucking the first girl that paid him attention, and flopped himself back onto the bed, sheets heavy with the smell of sex. He needed to get out of his room, he thought, before he suffocated. Part of him wished she had stayed, if just for human contact.</p><p>For a moment, he considered knocking on Nicky’s door, but he knew how heavy his teammate slept, and at 1am, even if he did wake up, George didn’t think his Canadian politeness was the kind of reassurance he needed right now – he needed a slap in the face and a punch in the gut, not a cold glass of water and a one-armed hug. Instead, he made a beeline for Alex’s room, figuring he might be able to wake him if he pounded on his door loudly enough.</p><p>            “He’s not there, mate.” Max shrugged, having poked his head around the doorframe of his hotel room door after listening to George thump intermittently on his teammate’s door for the last five minutes. “He flew home early. He didn’t tell you?”<br/>
George just shook his head in reply, barely registering that it was Max he was talking to as he stared at his own socked feet.<br/>
            Max pouted, realising George was going through some sort of emotional turmoil. “Lando’s in here. We… we skipped the party to play some PlayStation.” He opened the door fully, inviting George in. “If you want, you can hang out?”<br/>
            George sighed with relief and shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”</p><p>Before he’d even stepped past the hallway of Max’s suite, Max had shoved a bottle of beer into his hand, offering a mumbled apology that it wasn’t cold.</p><p>            “What the <em>fuck </em>are <em>you</em> wearing?” George grinned, his way of greeting Lando who was sat cross-legged on the floor. Some of the anguish dissipated immediately.<br/>
            Lando looked down at himself to Max’s Red Bull hoodie he had on, about two sizes too big for him, and laughed like it was the first time he’d thought about what he was wearing. “I dropped pizza on my one.” He pointed to the corner of the room, where a balled-up orange and grey jumper was thrown, next to a messy pile of half-eaten takeaway containers. “You wanted Alex?”</p><p>This part of the hotel was supposed to give George kind, affectionate Alex but he had ended up with drunk, unsympathetic Max and sober, ingenuous Lando. Maybe it was what he really needed.</p><p>            “Come on, mate.” Max re-emerged from his bedroom to the lounge area with a Red Bull hoodie and threw it to George. “It’s only Red Bull fans allowed in here.”<br/>
            He held the jumper up to his face, checking it wasn’t some kind of joke to get him to wear one of Max’s sweaty old hoodies. “You don’t really want me to wear this?” He bit his bottom lip, trying not to smile behind it, appreciating that he was being included.<br/>
            “It would be rude not to, no?” The Dutchman teased, flicking off George’s Williams cap, exposing his fluffy, damp hair. “It’s a gift.”</p><p>After pulling off his own hoodie (cueing fake sick noises from Lando at his bare torso) and replacing it with the Red Bull one to childlike squawks of unbelieving laughter from Max, George settled himself on the floor with his beer, using a cushion to lean against the gap between the men now sat either side of the sofa. Once Max and Lando settled back into playing their game, he closed his eyes and rested his head towards Lando’s knee, to which he shuffled to give George a headrest. A comforting gesture of solidarity. It was reasonably silent between the three of them for a while until Max and Lando finished their game of FIFA, with only the occasional cheer from Max and grumpy noise from Lando.</p><p>            “So, go on,” Lando began, struggling to be serious even though he knew George must be going through something, “how can the, umm, agony uncles help you?”<br/>
            George shook his head in amusement. “Oh my god.” He paused. “Oh my god.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not doing this if you’re going to just… <em>Lando</em> it up.”<br/>
            Max shot Lando a look, like a parent telling their child to behave. “George, you know, we want to help. I know that nobody showers at 1 in the morning on a good day, not even a Formula 1 driver.”</p><p>He had a reputation around the paddock now, for going back to his room after a race. All of the drivers had seen him slink off once all of the stakeholders went home and got replaced with flirty young people. It went without saying what had happened after the party tonight, and, hanging out in the same group, and with no doubt that Alex had let a bit much slip when talking to Max back at Red Bull, Lando and Max knew more about his habits than most.</p><p>            A deep breath escaped George and he shook his head. “I just need to be around people. I can’t talk about this.”<br/>
            “George.” Lando took a sterner tone and tucked a knee up to his chest, hugging it for comfort. “Fuck, mate. When did you start being such a wanker?”<br/>
            George swallowed the lump in his throat. “I guess it was around when the champagne stopped coming.”<br/>
            “You’re fucking good, you know that, right, mate?” Max said before taking a long swig from his beer bottle to buy time to think. “Like, really fucking good. We could all be World Champion, one day, and fuck knows you’ve got me scared.”<br/>
            Lando shrugged and smiled inwardly, a glimpse of bitterness in his face. “You already took the F2 title off of me. I’ve been scared of you for fucking years.” He put a comforting hand on George’s head and stroked his hair soothingly, like his own mum used to when he lost to George. “What’s really the problem?”<br/>
            “I’ve lost control of everything.” George breathed, his voice emotionless.</p><p>Over his shoulder, he could feel the tension of Lando and Max having a silent conversation, Lando’s tender touch becoming less rhythmic as he huffed some kind of protest.<br/>
            “You’re too drunk. You’re staying here, on the couch,” Max eventually said. “Lando and I will be here in the morning. We can talk more… if you want… when you’re sober.”<br/>
            George nodded and pushed himself up onto the sofa from the floor, leaning more into Lando’s touch as he did so. Lando put his arms around the taller man and held him, unsure what to do – he’d never had to deal with anybody like this before.</p><p>Max went around the hotel room looking for supplies for George – a spare duvet, a pillow, the biggest Red Bull t-shirt he owned that the taller man could wear as pyjamas – while Lando comforted George, gripping his hoodie, trying to reassure him with calm breaths, while not trying to panic himself.</p><p>            “We’re going to bed now, G.” Lando hugged into George before gently untucking his legs from under his head and standing up. “I’ll leave you a glass of water on the side table.”<br/>
            “Thanks, guys.” George managed, his first words since his admission. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Max passed him the things he’d gathered and helped him replace the hoodie with the t-shirt as Lando looked on, sulking and leaning against the doorframe of Max’s bedroom. With the duvet now cocooned around him, the sofa now became his bed as he laid down, and he watched as Max turned away and him and Lando retreated into his bedroom, after sharing a tender hug in the doorway.</p><p>For the first time since entering the room, George checked his phone. Still there was no word from Alex, in fact there was no word from anyone. Knots formed in his stomach as he suddenly felt alone again.</p><p>The pillow felt too soft under his head and immediately, he was asleep.</p><p>
  <em>The car is hit by George Russell. The wall is hit by George Russell. The gravel is hit by George Russell.</em>
</p><p>The imaginary scenario replayed in his head – a dream sequence, David Croft’s voice mocking him, detailing his mistake. In one dream, he was flung off the track in Woodcote at Silverstone; in another, he got caught up in the hairpin at Suzuka; and, of course, in the third, he crashed into the wall again in Imola.</p><p>He woke up to Lando squatting down in front of him, waving a hand in his face.</p><p>            “Nice view.” George grumbled sarcastically, commenting on the fact he’d just seen way more of Lando than he wanted to, with the younger man only wearing a pair of boxers to walk through to the kitchen. He stretched his body back, letting a few twinges escape his joints. His head thumped.<br/>
            “You were having a nightmare.” Lando replied, matter-of-factly, perching on the edge of the sofa, avoiding George’s gangly body. “Look, um, I know you were drunk, and it was Alex you were looking for last night, and I know that maybe Max and I weren’t the best… substitute… for one of your best friends in the world, but it was nice to have you open up to us. And Max and I were talking, and we thought… well, we wanted to open up to you too, because you’re one of my best friends on the grid, and, well, Max and I, we’re kind of… dating.”<br/>
            George nodded, his head splitting at the slight movement, absorbing Lando’s verbal diarrhoea at half the speed he would usually. “Oh.” He pondered for a moment as his brain computed the information. “That’s, uh – well, I’m really proud of you. Both.” He let his mouth curve upwards into a huge smile, so pleased that his friend had chosen to share this with him. Maybe he wasn’t so alone, maybe people did trust him. “Really, so proud.” He sat up and threw his arms around Lando’s shoulders, ignoring the fact it felt like his brain was three times too big for his skull. “Who knows?”<br/>
            Lando gulped – relief. “Just Charles and Alex. Charles walked in on us kissing a few weeks ago when I left my door unlocked – he made that… face of his… and burst out laughing. And Alex… Max told Alex before the press conference, on Thursday.”<br/>
            “I’m proud of you.” George repeated.<br/>
            “Yeah.” Lando blinked, grinned, “thanks.”</p><p>As George watched Lando plod back to Max’s bedroom, he couldn’t stop smiling; he knew he’d just been one of the first to experience his friend taking steps with accepting himself. He thought for a moment that maybe he should do the same – tell the other drivers it wasn’t always women he’d take back to his hotel room on Sunday night – but the idea was gone as quickly as it came. He checked his phone again, still nothing from Alex – he must have still been tending to his wounds. George almost sent him another text, in case something had happened to the first, but decided against it, as he knew Alex could be sulky and often just needed space and to be with his family and vent to the cats, who had no fucking idea what was going on.</p><p>He texted Charles instead:</p><p>
  <em>            You kept that to yourself then?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. silence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for the love on the first chapter you're all amazing!!!! :) </p>
<p>There is only some light French in this chapter but translations at the bottom notes to save the trip to Google Translate if you're curious</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite it being 7am, within seconds, Charles had read the text, having woken up early to vomit the remains of the previous night’s alcohol and subsequently nurse his pounding head with a huge bottle of electrolyte solution that Andrea had left him in the fridge – his hangover guardian angel. He immediately panicked that he’d accidentally said something to someone about Max and Lando when he’d been drunk, even though he was pretty sure, no – he was certain – that he’d been so careful with everything he’d said, he’d spent weeks trying not to mention it. His heartbeat was so loud he could hear it.<br/><br/>He quickly replied:<br/><br/><em>            Cc!! What do you mean mon chouuuu?<br/><br/></em>He knew George was a sucker for French, because he was still the little English schoolboy, eager to impress, that Charles had known for years, ever since they were competing in karts together. It was a long five minutes, where he could see that George had read the message but hadn’t replied. He considered marching to his room and demanding an answer and a recount of the night’s events, before realising he didn’t even know what floor George was staying on. He hardly remembered seeing George at the party, a vague recollection of him talking to a woman, a forgotten memory now.<br/><br/>He almost prematurely sighed with relief when below George’s name read ‘en train d'écrire’:<br/><br/><em>            Lando told me about him and Max<br/></em><em>            I hear you made ‘that Charles face’<br/><br/></em>Charles held his phone to his chest, feeling his heart rate slow down. He didn’t fuck up.<br/><br/>He tapped out a quick reply:<br/><br/><em>            Okay thank god. This secret was a tricky one for me to keep<br/></em><em>            And Alex knows? Yes?<br/><br/></em>George contemplated for a moment – sure, Lando had told him that Alex knew, but Alex was selfishly playing radio silence right now. He felt the beginnings of a lump in his throat as he let his mind wander to negative thoughts – he wondered if Alex had seen his message and consciously decided George wasn’t deserving of his help or support. Maybe he was fed up with George making mistake after mistake on the track without consequence, the eyes of the press firmly on the mistakes of the midfield and up, as if the backmarkers didn’t exist, because, really, the only vilification they were getting was for ignoring blue flags – and they celebrated if they could get a finish above P15. He thought his best friend would have at least told him he was leaving.<br/><br/>He looked back to his phone, seeing Charles was still online, no doubt waiting for a reply:<br/><br/><em>            Yeah I haven’t spoken to him he’s gone home<br/></em><em>            Are you going for breakfast soon?<br/><br/></em>The invitation feels kind of empty to Charles, but he’d been bursting at the seams waiting for Lando and Max to finally tell more people that they were fucking – he would easily admit he was one of the biggest gossips on the grid, and he hadn’t wanted to seem self-indulgent, but he’d struggled to not tell anybody outright because it was <em>enormous news</em>, and he had known it <em>first</em>. It had made him a little uneasy to have the burden of the information at the beginning – he’d known there was some ambiguity in Lando’s sexuality and that he pretty openly loved everyone – it hadn’t considerably surprised him; from Max, though, who he’d pretty much grown up with, seeing him at various karting tracks with girlfriend after girlfriend from the age of about thirteen – that had been slightly more difficult to wrap his head around, and he’d had to keep covertly asking Lando that he was sure Max wasn’t taking advantage of him. All he knew was that he was happy that they had each other now. He wished he could have talked about it with George a few weeks before.<br/><br/>He replied:<br/><br/><em>            Yep. Mais room service. I am 302<br/></em><em>            Maybe 30 min?<br/><br/></em>The now-lukewarm glass of water that Lando left was George’s liberation from the hammering in his head – it had at least given him enough energy to sit up and rub his temples. Eventually, he untangled himself from the duvet and stood up, balancing himself against the bookshelf – he needed to retrieve his clothes before he left as he couldn’t risk being seen by anyone, not even the hotel staff, in Max’s Red Bull merch – he didn’t want to invite the questions, even if it could easily be brushed off as a silly joke. He dizzily attempted to traverse the space he’d been occupying, tired, blurry eyes and misbehaving limbs not of any help.<br/><br/>His shoulder thudded against the wall, rumbling the thin hotel walls. He heard Max groan from the bedroom – an involuntary sound of complaint, knowing he would now have to deal with a disorientated George, probably still drunk from the evening and at least a little confused by waking up in a strange place.<br/><br/>The sound of Max pulling the stiff bedroom door open ripped through George’s ears, making him jump, the rush of adrenaline from the shock of almost falling flat on his face now hitting him. Max took big strides to end up directly in front of the taller man, a hand on his bicep, steadying him; he almost looked like he was going to fall over.<br/><br/>            “Are you hurt?” Max croaked sleepily, his own mild hangover eating at him from behind his eyes. He smiled a little once he realised George hadn’t injured himself. “The wall is okay?”<br/>            George shook his head no. “Shoulder’s fine. Wall’s fine. Still drunk, I think.” He hadn’t even realised how drunk he had been – no wonder he’d had the nightmares.<br/>            Max laughed slightly, the back of his head punishing him by radiating a pain down his neck – a mix of hangover pain and an ache from yesterday’s race. “You had three beers while we finished our game, so… no shit, yeah.”<br/>            “I need my hoodie and stuff.” George mumbled as Max guided him back to sit on the sofa. “I’ve got to walk through the hotel.”<br/>            Max nodded, turning his head away towards the bedroom. “Lando!” He shouted pathetically before taking a seat next to George and massaging his eyes with the palms of his hands. He loved to drink but he’d never mastered hangovers, not even mild ones like this.<br/>            Lando emerged looking comically aggravated, still just wearing boxers, but now with a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders, and trudged barefoot to the kitchenette to fill two glasses with water. “You’re both banned from drinking.”<br/><br/>It was five minutes, two paracetamol and a soaking wet cold flannel before George felt capable of sitting back up to get changed. He thought about how much his coach, Aleix, was going to kill him after their few days off from training, because he couldn’t see how this hangover would ever end. The Red Bull t-shirt was helped off of his torso by a completely sober Lando, who then replaced it with the Tommy Hilfiger hoodie he’d thrown on the night before – George had tried to do it alone, but his arms felt heavier, longer, lankier than usual.<br/><br/>            “Okay.” He exhaled, standing to adjust his tracksuit bottoms and straighten out his clothes, and he silently thanked the drunk version of him for not inconveniencing him with shoes. Max stood up and he pulled him into a hug. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever even hugged Max away from the paddock before. “Thanks, Max.” He returned the embrace. “And if you hurt Lando, Alex and I <em>will</em> kill you.” He smiled a lopsided smile as he pulled away, only half-joking.<br/>            “I know.” Max laughed, holding both his palms up in the air before Lando appeared to wrap his arms around The Dutchman’s middle from behind, crushing his ribs.<br/>            Lando scrunched his face at George’s overprotectiveness. “Ha! I will kill him first – you’re helping me hide the body.”<br/>            “Yeah?” George raised his eyebrows, amused. “Honestly I wouldn’t put anything past you two.”<br/><br/>It had <em>kind of </em>been an accident, their relationship – Max and Lando had at some point found themselves texting each other after every race, which turned into texting after press conferences, practices, qualifying, and soon enough every day – morning, evening, night. Lando’s crush developed patiently, knowing a crush on one of his best friends wouldn’t go down well if he ever shared it with anybody, and once he realised it was a crush, he’d bubble wrapped it, put it in a box, parcel taped it up, and priority posted it to the back of his mind. But it hit Max like a truck – first, he noticed the smile on his face when his he was waiting for a reply, thinking nothing of it – they were good friends, after all – then, one day, hanging out after a race, playing FIFA, Max sat down just a little too close for comfort to Lando. He found himself just staring at the younger man’s hands on the controller, his feet crossed under his lap, the way he couldn’t sit still no matter how hard he tried, and he barely registered what he was doing until he was grabbing Lando’s face in his hands and kissing him. It only took him four days after that to speak to the younger man again.<br/><br/>Charles opened his door almost immediately.<br/><br/>            “I did not think you were coming!” He whispered, ushering George inside, his tired French accent thick as ever.<br/>            “I’d never stand you up, Charles.” George blinked back the pressure behind his eyes, before flopping himself down onto the sofa and tucked his feet up, snuggling into a cushion. “Sorry, yeah? I’m really hungover. Lando had to fucking dress me. Can you order me something fried and beige? I’m going to nap, I’ll be with you shortly.”<br/>            “Yeah, of course. I think they do the American breakfast.” Charles picked up the phone and reeled off a list of requests in French, picking just the right volume so as not to agitate George’s pounding head.<br/><br/>They sat in relative quiet until the food arrived, George falling in and out of sleep, waiting for the paracetamol to really take effect, as Charles watched something foreign on the TV – the Brit couldn’t concentrate for long enough to figure out if it was French or Italian. The feelings from the night before still hadn’t gone away – he was trying desperately to distract his brain by thinking about the hangover. It was working to a degree. The quiet knock on the door made George jump out of his nap and he immediately felt better at the sight of the feast Charles had ordered.<br/><br/>            “I love you, Charles.” George grinned, grabbing his plate of sausages, hash browns, pancakes, bacon, beans, toast, eggs, whatever.<br/>            “Ah, if I had known it was a special date, I would have worn something better.” Charles tutted, smirking, as he spooned yoghurt over his strawberries. “Speaking of that… I saw you talking to that girl last night at the party. Was she okay?”<br/>            George gulped half his glass of water to postpone his answer for as long as possible. “Yeah,” he began, “I felt like shit after.” George was feeling nothing if not honest. “I went to find Alex… ended up with Max and Lando.”<br/>            “That’s definitely the short straw if you are looking for compassion.” Charles spooned a yoghurt-y strawberry into his mouth. “You should party in Monaco. The girls, they love an Englishman.”<br/>            George thought he should test the waters; he could always feign comedy if the reaction wasn’t what he hoped. “It isn’t <em>only</em> girls.”<br/>            Charles cocked his head, a look of bewilderment on his face, almost amusement. “I see. Lando and Max… you didn’t…?”<br/>            George laughed at the thought. “No, Charles. Nobody knows. Just the guys I’ve fucked… and you…”<br/>            “Not Alex?”<br/>            George shook his head no. “Just you.”<br/><br/>Charles wasn’t sure how many more confessions he could take – the secret he could suddenly share had been replaced by another one he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t really know what to say to him, the same as he hadn’t really known what to say to Lando and Max, and all he’d done is panic and laugh at them, forcing them to corner him against the door and beg him not to tell anyone, as if he would purposefully expose them. He was determined he wouldn’t do that now; this was different, George coming out to him – trusting him, it wasn’t Lando’s stupid door-locking slip-up. He finished his fruit in thoughtful silence.<br/><br/>George ate slowly, he didn’t know if it was going down well or not – Charles had entered a deep state of contemplation; his face looked like he was trying to figure out a mystery, like the cogs were turning and slowly clicking into place. He took it as a good sign that he hadn’t ran away yet, but his mind spiralled slowly until he was thinking about how he’d felt the night before – first, like a conqueror, and then, suddenly, helpless and afraid. He wondered what the world record was for falling from grace, if you could call it that.<br/><br/>            “Mate!” Charles waved a hand in front of George’s almost empty plate, where his eyes had been fixated. “Sorry, I needed to think a moment. It’s not you… just… I am fed up with the secrets.”<br/>            “Me too.”<br/>            “I didn’t mean it like that.”<br/>            “I know.”<br/>            “I wouldn’t know it, but I am sure that the guys in Monaco love Englishmen as well.”<br/>            “Shut up.” George giggled.<br/><br/>They talked for a while, about the race, the party, skirting around the elephant in the room. George could feel his blood boiling deep in his skin, the feeling of balancing on the fine line between punching a wall and ugly crying. He’d never been dramatic enough to do either. Something about Charles’ face calmed him, though – maybe that was why he’d told him in the first place.<br/><br/>The flight home was dizzy, quiet, and George spoke to nobody beyond small talk in the departure lounge. He put his headphones on, pulled his hoodie over his eyes and slept until briefly waking to get the connecting flight, before closing his eyes again and yearning for his own bed.<br/><br/>As they touched down in the UK and everyone started jostling around the plane, George’s phone buzzed. There were a few messages, mostly from his family making sure he got home okay.<br/><br/>But the one from Alex sat at the top:<br/><br/><em>            Sorry G<br/></em><em>            Stressed.<br/></em><em>            I’ll call you. Let me know when you’re free</em><br/><br/>He groaned, having done all of the opening up he’d wanted to do with people he wouldn’t usually want to do it with. Alex was 24 hours too late. Multiple crises too late. It felt like a week since the race, but it had barely been a day.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The French!:</p>
<p>CC - coucou (hi)<br/>Mon chou (ma choue for feminine) - term of endearment, like babe/honey<br/>en train d'écrire - 'writing'<br/>Mais - but</p>
<p>Again I am sorry it's slow but I promise promise promise there will be more action in the coming chapters :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. not guilty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Helloo! Happy Sunday - here's an update :) </p>
<p>The second half of this chapter is a (fully consensual) sex scene so please skip this if you don't want to read sex scenes</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>George called, and Alex fulfilled his best friend duty – making everything George said he’d done sound like not such a big deal, that he hadn’t completely embarrassed himself, that everyone thought he was <em>good</em>, his car was behind, not him. It made George feel guilty to be complaining when his friend had his career to worry about – at least his own seat was safe. He tried not to push on talking about it too much; he knew Alex would talk about it if he’d wanted to. They promised to visit each other when they’d got rid of the jetlag. George feared that wasn’t soon enough, he could already feel the urge to drown his sorrows in more vodka, in more unfamiliar arms. He almost called Aleix to see if they could start training that day, rather than in a couple of days’ time, for the distraction, but decided against that as he got out of his shower and still felt all of the pains from driving the car for three days, the nails digging into the skin on his back, a night on an uncomfortable hotel sofa, sleeping upright in an aeroplane.<br/><br/>He managed to waste most of his days off by sleeping, gaming, and more lazy wanks than he’d care to admit. If the thought of going out to a club or texting an ex for sex crossed his mind, he’d jump into a cold shower and try not to think. Lando and Max had both messaged, first Lando, and when he hadn’t replied, Max – they were words of sympathy, really – making sure George hadn’t been feeling quite so woeful. He hadn’t confessed anything to them, not really; he’d been vague – which had probably worried them more.<br/><br/>Alex was finally dropping in, though, before it was back to training and workouts and factory days. George had made a half-arsed attempt at tidying up, mostly just making sure dirty clothes and dirty dishes weren’t hanging about. Nobody else had been to see him; he’d denied the offers of his family, wanting to be alone. He hadn’t really wanted to see Alex, either, in the end, but he was his best friend, and he knew he would only have to make minimal effort and conversation. They had an extra week between races, a bit of extra time to recuperate, so he’d figured there was plenty of time to see everybody.<br/><br/>The doorbell rang and Alex pulled George into a hug as soon as the door opened.<br/><br/>            “Is everything okay?” George spoke into his shoulder.<br/>            Alex swallowed. “I’m sorry for leaving and not saying anything. I should have known you’d need me. Lando and Max said you got pretty weird.”<br/>            George scoffed, amused, pulling away from the hug and leading the way through to the living room – yep, that was exactly how he’d expect the duo to describe him that night. “I’m not your responsibility, Alex. <em>You </em>need you more than I need you.” He paused. “You should have said something, we could have got drunk together.”<br/>            “And you’d still have ended up taking some girl back to your room and coming to mine for help, I’d have been too grumpy and drunk to answer, and Lando and Max would still have come to your rescue.” Alex surmised.<br/><br/>George conceded that it was nice having someone else around and felt a little bit guilty about not seeing anybody else since getting home. As the evening went on, the two men divulged their weekends since the race – the dinner Alex and his team principal had been to together was tough: Christian had told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to improve or he’d be cut, so he booked the next flight to get a head start on training, but had actually just spent the last two days being miserable and avoiding taking credit for his mistakes. He made a mental note to thank Lando, Max and Charles for being there for George when he wasn’t. He tried not to feel like his younger friend was his responsibility, but sometimes he felt more like a little brother.<br/><br/>            “Max and Lando…” Alex began, after a short period of silence, staring at a big spoonful of nutritionist-approved pasta, “…how long do you think it will last?”<br/>            George had put more thought into it than he thought he would since returning from Russia. “Until Lando smokes Max in a race. Or until one of them gets that kind of angry they both get… you know the kind I mean… <em>irrationally</em>.” He answered, almost immediately.<br/>            Alex grinned. “I think you’re right. I give it until the end of next season.”<br/>            “Maybe they’ll surprise us.” George shrugged. “I don’t think they’ve got the wrong idea, dating in F1.”<br/>            “Yeah, but usually it’s a team member, not a rival.”<br/>            “Tell that to Lewis and Nico.”<br/>            Alex shook his head. “Oh, that’s rumours, come on George.”<br/>            George laughed, a belly laugh. “Rumours or Formula One’s best-kept secret?”<br/><br/>The two spent a distanced evening together, miles apart from the one he’d spent with his panicky head laid on Lando’s knee and his first real hug from Max.<br/><br/>Charles sat in front of the Zoom call, chin resting on his palm, eyes closed, as his manager went over some PR responsibilities with him, a photoshoot and some merch signing at Maranello, a visit to Armani in Milan, a meeting with Sky Sports in London about a feature they wanted to do. He wondered how George was after their breakfast together, a fleeting thought at first, that then genuine concern – he hadn’t reached out since after the party, he hoped it didn’t seem like he had been avoiding him.<br/><br/>He shot off a quick couple of texts, guilt blocking out the words he was meant to be listening to:<br/><br/>            <em>Tout va bien? Everything is fine?<br/>            </em><em>I am visiting London at the weekend. To see Sky<br/>            </em><em>Are you free?<br/><br/></em>Usually, he would call in on Lando if he was near London, or Pierre if he was at AlphaTauri’s UK base, but he’d left so many things unsaid during their breakfast. He knew he could have pushed George to talk about other things that had been bothering him that morning, rather than just make jokes, he could have been a figurative shoulder to cry on (he doubted George would have<em> actually </em>wanted to cry), because he <em>liked </em>George, he really did, and he didn’t think he deserved the reputation he had made for himself. But for some reason he’d avoided it.<br/><br/>It was Saturday afternoon and George laid, stretched out as much as he could, in the hot bath, soothing the aches and pains from the 10km hike he’d just finished, music loud, trying to drown out the white noise in his brain. Charles was due in from Nice shortly and he’d promised to pick him up from the airport – he supposed it would be nice to have a distraction from his own thoughts. He’d managed to ward off negativity in the week with working out for an extra hour or two most days, working his body to exhaustion so all the energy he’d had left was used to shower and drag himself to bed. Aleix had told him it wasn’t sustainable, that it wasn’t necessary, but George had shrugged and added an extra protein shake onto his food for the day.<br/><br/>            “I feel bad.” Was the first thing Charles said after he waved off his team, as he dumped his overnight bag into the boot of George’s car. “I should have texted you.”<br/>            George raised an eyebrow as Charles slid into the passenger seat. “It’s fine, really, Charles. It was a lot to take in, all in one morning.” He started to drive. “I was drunk and feeling guilty and I just… have a problem. You didn’t have to talk about it at all, but you did, so… thank you.” Charles just nodded in reply.<br/><br/>The drive to George’s home was almost awkward, the two men only making boring conversation about the breaks between the races and other drivers – some Instagram posts they’d seen.<br/><br/>Before long, they were sat in George’s living room, Charles finally fed up with small talk. He intended to make up for the previous weekend.<br/><br/>            “What is it really, then?” Charles asked. “This…<em> problem</em>?”<br/>            “It’s stupid.” George crossed his arms over his chest protectively.<br/>            Charles let a small smile form on his lips. “No, tell me. Besides Seb, you are the smartest driver I know, it is not stupid, so tell me.”<br/>            George sighed, finally accepting that telling someone might help the situation. “I feel so out of control of my career… of my life.” He sighed. He started and now he couldn’t stop. Charles had kind eyes. “The only thing that brings me a little bit of respite is sex, and it’s careless, usually. I mean – we use protection, it’s just… it doesn’t make me feel better. I don’t know why I look for it at every opportunity.”<br/>            “<em>C’est impossible</em>.” Charles mused. “Sex should make you feel good.”<br/>            “Well, sure it does.” He shrugged. “In the moment.” He sighed.<br/>            The Monegasque bit his bottom lip, desperately trying to prevent the words from leaving his mouth, a battle between his heart and his head. “I can show you.”<br/><br/>That surprised George, and sent him into a barrage of questions, trying fruitlessly to convince Charles to deny what he just said (because <em>he would do it, if Charles really wanted to</em>). But the more George asked, the more it made sense to Charles – he’d never put a label on himself being <em>straight</em>, he’d just <em>only ever slept with women</em>, and he found men attractive, sure, but he’d never really wanted to sleep with one before and now, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made to have sex with George, he wanted to make him feel <em>good.<br/></em><br/>George could feel his face, flushed, not believing the words Charles was saying. The man was good-looking, and he was here, and he wanted to have sex with George, to rediscover the version of sex he should be enjoying. Eventually, after they agreed to at least <em>try</em>, Charles followed George to his bedroom, where George grabbed out lube and a condom from his bedside cabinet and sat on the bed.<br/><br/>            “I don’t think this will work.” George huffed, holding his knees to his chest as Charles tugged on an arm. “Charles, I <em>really</em> don’t think this will work.”<br/>            “Trust me.” It felt like he was speaking straight to George’s soul, his eyes dark, and he held out his palm. George gingerly gave him his wrist, which Charles kissed, gently. “I promise you will like this. If you don’t want this, just tell me.”<br/>            George tried to swallow the nerves. “I do, but… I just want to make sure you do.”<br/><br/>Charles rolled his eyes. He had never had sex with a man before, no, he thought, but he knew what he was doing; sex is hardly an art – that was a myth made up by men who thought they were really good at it because they’d slept with people that were either easy to please or eager to please. He grabbed George’s other wrist and pushed him to the bed, his legs parting to make room for Charles’ body. For a moment, he lingered his face centimetres above the other man’s, and when their lips collided for the first time, they both no longer had the capacity to feel nervous. Charles bit George’s bottom lip and he melted beneath him.<br/><br/>            “It is just sex.” Charles hovered his face inches above George’s for a moment, then moved his lips to his neck, an assault: licking, “and do not”, kissing, “tell me”, biting, “you do not”, breathing, “want me.”<br/><br/>He released the younger man’s arms briefly to slide his hands up under his t-shirt and help it off over his head. He found himself sitting back and taking in the view of George’s upper body, his breath hitching in his throat, not quite understanding what he found so sexy, so intriguing, about it. He must have sat, fixated, because George sat up on his elbows briefly, with a questioning expression, until Charles pushed him back down, kissing him all over, hands exploring his now naked skin, dragging his fingernails softly down each side, making George wriggle underneath him, tickled. Charles paused on his waist, gripping it from either side and driving his groin slowly into the other man’s, figuring out how he was going to adapt to this, to George, causing a groan to escape from George as the fabric of his jeans tightened. Theirs both did.<br/><br/>            “Charles, you need to let me take my jeans off.” George wriggled himself away from the foreign hands exploring him so he could slip off his trousers.<br/>            Reluctantly, Charles’ hands were removed – they felt different now, and shook slightly as he fumbled getting rid of his own jeans. “Oui, sorry. I, er… I am shaking.” He held up one of his hands to show the now almost naked man. But it wasn’t nerves. Anticipation, maybe, mixed with a hint of uncertainty.<br/>            George took the opportunity to trap Charles’ hand in his, before rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “You know the same goes for you, if it’s too much…”<br/><br/>The Monegasque didn’t reply, instead choosing to squeeze George’s hand and kiss his stomach. He could feel George, hard, against his chest. He moved to feel the unfamiliar cock through the unfamiliar boxers with his hand and snatched off the underwear in one movement, before taking off his own. George’s cock rested, mostly hard, on his lower abdomen. Charles lazily wrapped his hand around it, causing George to arch into his touch. Ah, so that was new; different, he thought, as his own cock twitched, surprising him – he never imagined he would find it this exciting; invigorating as he was – he had been thinking of it more as a favour to a friend, less of a sexual connection.<br/><br/>Charles picked up the lube set out earlier, in preparation. He shrugged at George, questioning if he was ready, to which he nodded, only a little bit of anxiety bubbling away, threatening him to make a stop to this before he was too far gone.<br/><br/>            “Try two… maybe?” George gulped, watching as Charles covered his fingers in lube. “I’m not usually… on the bottom.”<br/>            Charles looked up at him, slightly panicked at George’s admission of inexperience, but tried not to show it. “<em>Mon Dieu</em>.” He said under his breath, pausing to double the amount of lube. “OK. You have to tell me what is good. You have to tell me what you want.”<br/>            George closed his eyes, thought a moment. “Speaking from experience… I don't think there is much you can do wrong.” He laughed. “I just want you… to get on with it.”<br/><br/>It was like a blur – Charles’ fingers curling inside as he tried to find where to angle his cock, eventually settling on a spot that made George breathe heavier and beg for mercy. That seemed like the one. Next, the anticipation as Charles put the condom on and feeling helpless as the new, different, strange cock pressed against George.<br/><br/>            “Is it OK to…?” Charles spoke, pulling George back to being an active participant, but barely waited for an answer as he pushed the head of his cock inside. “Ah, that is new.” He smiled, a thoughtful smile. It was a few seconds before he braced himself to push further. He knew if he didn’t take it slowly it was not going to last long.<br/><br/>It took a few slow, nervous thrusts before Charles leant to kiss George, and he let out an involuntary moan as George bit his bottom lip in return. He watched the man beneath him as he unhurriedly moved his hand up and down his own cock and grabbed his wrist with one hand urgently, encouragingly, as he increased his own pace.<br/><br/>            “I’m not going to last anymore.” Charles breathed, angling his cock towards the spot he’d found earlier, cushioning both of their groans in a lazy kiss.<br/>            “Yep, me either.” George fisted his cock and it wasn't before long that he had cum over his stomach, only barely noticing the other man’s own orgasm.<br/><br/>            “See? You are not going to run away?” Charles laughed, tumbling gymnastically out from between George’s legs and onto the bed next to him. “It feels good still?”<br/>            “It feels good still.” George repeated his grammatically incorrect question back to him, his ability to create sentences compromised by the adrenaline bouncing from one side of his body to the other.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's not a lot of French in this (and it's only very light) but I will provide translations on all chapters in case there is anything:</p>
<p>Tout va bien? - is everything okay?<br/>C'est impossible - (I'm sure you know this one!!) it is impossible<br/>Mon Dieu - my god</p>
<p>Thank you again for the kudos and comments! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. secrets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles left, and the following days felt like a blur. George saw his parents, his brother, his sister. Worked out, did some simulator days at the Williams factory. Business as usual. He didn’t think about getting drunk and throwing caution to the wind, even when he had a day off. He didn’t think about messaging any exes. Charles hadn’t texted, but then he never said he would, and besides, George hadn’t texted Charles either.<br/><br/>            “Is Charles not coming?” Alex asked over voice chat. “He doesn’t usually turn away the chance for some guiltless iRacing.” They weren’t streaming; it was an easy way for them all to catch up and invent an excuse to spend hours gaming (not that Lando had ever needed one).<br/>            They could almost hear Lando shrug. “I dunno. He said he couldn’t make it tonight.”<br/>            George’s throat went dry. “Lando, you spoke to him though?”<br/>            “Yeah,” Lando responded, “he called me earlier; said thanks but he wasn’t feeling great. Max will be here in about half an hour – he’s only just got back to Monaco from his sister’s but he’s getting dinner… do you know he only flew out this morning? It’s bullshit – only to fly back… what a waste of fucking time.”<br/>            Alex laughed at their friend. “So, you had a busy day, then?”<br/>            “Well, no… I didn’t… but… think about the environment.”<br/>            “When have you ever been concerned about <em>the environment</em>?” George quipped, reinserting himself to the conversation after contemplating Charles’ rejection to join them – what did he mean, <em>wasn’t feeling great</em>? “It’s nothing you’ve not done before. You’re just irritated Max didn’t fly out to see <em>you</em> for a day.”<br/>            The younger man sighed comically, “maybe,” and took a more serious tone, “I <em>do </em>really miss him, though.”<br/>            “Woah, woah, woah,” Alex started, “watch the PDA, Lando. We are having no couple stuff tonight. If I can’t talk about Lily, you can’t flirt with Max.”<br/>            “You’re both bullying me!” Lando whined, starting the game so they could begin their qualifying laps. “We’ll restart when Max gets in.”<br/>            George’s curiosity peaked as they set off on their laps. “Was Charles okay? When you spoke to him?”<br/>            “Sure,” Lando replied, “he didn’t sound poorly, he just said he wasn’t up for gaming. I didn’t ask him where he was so maybe he… shit…” he’d crashed into the wall going into turn four, “maybe he’s at Ferrari? He didn’t say he was doing anything, so he’s probably free if you need him for something… fuck sake…” his car was on the grass, “he came to see you at the weekend, didn’t he? Was he okay then?”<br/>            George’s throat was back to being dry. If Charles had told him that they’d seen each other, what else had he said to him? “Yeah. I picked him up from the airport and we were just hanging out all evening.” He hoped it sounded as convincingly normal as he hoped it did, his heart beating through his mouth as he rounded the corner, paranoid. “He seemed okay back at the weekend. He ate plenty, so he must have felt fine. He looked pretty great. I mean, yeah, he was in a good place. He was decent. Good, even.” The words were coming out of George, but he didn’t know quite what he was saying. Filling silence.<br/>            “George is stuck on a loop.” Alex joked, snapping him out of it.<br/><br/>They played for a short while, reasonably quiet, bar a few shouty swear words from Lando because he kept losing control of his car and blaming his equipment, threatening to give up and play Call of Duty instead.<br/><br/>            “Language, babe.” Max piped up, after a particularly lengthy, sweary rant by Lando.<br/>            Lando gasped with excitement. “Max! Get online, we’ll restart.” He let out a sigh of relief. “I’m shit today.”<br/>            “Oh, yeah? Just today?”<br/>            “Fuck you, Verstappen.”<br/><br/>Alex and George were silent, leaving Max and Lando had a short flirtatious argument – they both figured they’d get it out of their system before they reprimanded the couple. George’s cheeks had been hot since Lando had talked about Charles. He needed to know why Charles wasn’t playing with them – was it <em>his</em> fault? Why hadn’t Charles texted?<br/><br/>George:<br/><br/>            <em>Bonsoir mate<br/>            Are you feeling ok?<br/><br/></em>Charles replied, never one to shy away from sending a bombardment of texts:<br/><br/>            <em>I am not up for gaming<br/></em><em>            Not up for talking<br/></em><em>            Je suis désolé mon chou<br/></em><em>            It is not you<br/>            </em><em>Je vais bien. I promise<br/>           </em><em>Tu peux me regarder<br/><br/></em>He sent a selfie from his bed, an olive branch – a tired, sad smile on his face, headband holding his hair from his face.<br/><br/>George thought it was nice to see his face, even if looking forlorn:<br/><br/>            <em>Très beau Charles<br/>            </em><em>Well if you want to talk let me know<br/>            </em><em>Merci encore pour le weekend<br/><br/></em>Charles didn’t reply, but he laid in bed looking at the screen until its screen shut off – he did feel bad for not having messaged George since the weekend, but he’d been busy and hadn’t really been sure what to say anyway. He knew he felt better now that George texted him and had taken the pressure of procrastination away.<br/><br/>            “George, we’ve started qualis. Get a move on.” Alex’s car sped past his sat on the start line.<br/>            George sighed and pushed the throttle. “I’m used to starting at the back, you’re good.”<br/>            “You’re distracted today,” Lando tried to bite his tongue, “is it a girl?”<br/>            “You said no couple stuff.” He replied, teasing. He didn’t think of Charles that way, not really. The sex they had was just sex.<br/>            Lando gasped, “now you <em>have</em> to tell us.”<br/>            “Lando, he’s joking.” Alex snapped, demanding that the attention be taken away from the can of worms that was George Russell's sex life. “He would have told me. There’s no girl.”<br/>            “Maybe it’s a guy.” Max added. Lando puffed expectedly.<br/>            George smiled to himself at the ribbing he was getting. “It isn’t <em>anybody </em>distracting.” He lied.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Short chapter and sorry it is late!! I have a project deadline tomorrow - I'll make up for it at the weekend :)</p><p>Thank you all for kudos and comments :) </p><p>French lesson of the day that nobody asked for,</p><p>Bonsoir - good evening<br/>Je suis désolé mon chou - I am sorry honey/sweetheart<br/>Je vais bien - I am OK<br/>Tu peux me regarder - you can look at me<br/>Très beau - very beautiful<br/>Merci encore pour le weekend - thanks for the weekend</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. cloudy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles flashed George a smile as he watched him walk past the motorhomes with his head down under an umbrella – he either didn’t notice him, or he was ignoring him, but Charles wasn’t sure. He was pretty sure they were okay, even if they hadn’t spoken or texted since Charles chose to spend the evening alone in bed instead of competing with his closest colleagues in a virtual race.<br/>
<br/>
            “Is everything okay?” Seb walked back into the Ferrari motorhome and raised an eyebrow at Charles, swapping his soaked-through Ferrari cap for a new one laid out on a workbench.<br/>
            The younger man looked up at his teammate, looking drained. “I’m great. Better than ever.”<br/>
            “You can tell that to your grandmother.” Seb jested, a gentle expression on his face, the kind of face you’d want to confess all of your sins to, but Charles just looked at him confused. “You’re lying, Charles.”<br/>
            “I didn’t get any sleep on the flight,” he professed, shooting his glare to a group of Ferrari employees who he hoped would notice him and save him, “and I couldn’t sleep in the hotel bed last night.”<br/>
<br/>
Seb didn’t ask why, he just gave Charles a dad-like look that made him want to run away from everyone and find a dark room to sit in alone. The whole week he had spent so much time contemplating his mood, distant and detached, especially after everything with George. That was the last time he’d felt happy, but he couldn’t figure out why he’d then subconsciously avoided him by not texting him. He wondered how George felt about it, wondered if the next day he’d found someone to swipe right on and forgot all about him until he didn’t turn up to Lando’s gaming session. He put the headphones on his head and sat down to look at charts and statistics he didn’t entirely understand with their engineers. It both comforted and distressed him that George would be within miles of him all weekend. He laid his head on the desk and shut his eyes, forgetting about everyone in the room.<br/>
<br/>
The smile had come a split second before Charles left George’s peripheral vision and he’d felt bad for not returning at least a wave. Aleix walked next to him with purpose, holding the large umbrella they were sharing for shelter and talking about macros as if George didn’t just eat whatever he was told to eat. It had taken him about ten steps to realise that it was Charles, and that the smile was aimed at him.<br/>
<br/>
He reclined on the sofa in his drivers’ room as one of the team set up some lap replays for him to watch. He already knew exactly how to angle the steering wheel to steer and brake perfectly round every corner, he knew where all the DRS zones were – but the perfectionist in him counted every gear shift, the exact spots where it was easiest to miss the apex, where the track surface looked a bit uneven, and he ferociously wrote it down in a notebook that nobody else was allowed to see, a habit he’d had since he was fourteen and realised how serious driving had become.<br/>
<br/>
            “The engineers are saying that looks like practice is going to be cancelled tomorrow.” Nicky leant into the open door. “Really bad weather forecast.”<br/>
            George smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Great… maybe they’ll let us have a lie in.”<br/>
            “I hope so, for sure.” His teammate laughed. “Perhaps if nobody practices, we’ll have an edge.” George admired Nicky’s optimism.<br/>
<br/>
Nicky’s engineers were right – the next morning, free practice was cancelled, after both of the drivers were up and dressed in their race suits. As they waited, he team had said they’d do a few hours of extra briefing and some merch signing and PR videos and everyone could go schmoozing after that, after all, there were sponsors to entertain and guests to keep happy – Nicky’s family had all come to Germany and it was in George’s best interest to at least show his face.<br/>
<br/>
The team had moved all of the tables from the VIP area to allow for some more floor space, on account of the bad weather preventing them from going outside, where they’d usually have the tent set up. George thought it looked kind of chaotic this way and felt claustrophobic just walking up the stairs behind Nicky. He spent about an hour circulating around the room, important people from unimportant companies getting tipsier by the minute, asking him questions about racing, the weather, the weekend. He grew more and more uninterested as the hours ticked by. He’d had enough of being enthusiastic and wanted to lay in bed, hovering on the edge of consciousness while watching a film.<br/>
<br/>
            “I’m bored.” He declared to Nicky in a hushed voice, once he’d seized a moment where everybody else appeared to be entertaining themselves, with nobody demanding their attention. “I really need a nap, but if anyone asks, I’ve gone training. I’m going to go and make my excuses to Claire.”<br/>
            “Take me with you!” Nicky stuck out his bottom lip in jest and winked, “George, I’ve got your back.”<br/>
<br/>
He nodded goodbye to a few of the guests as he weaved back through the party from where his boss had been stood, and as soon as he was out, texted Aleix and said that he was leaving the party because he didn’t feel well and needed sleep. He knew his trainer would vouch for him if he asked, but he didn’t want to put him in a position where he would potentially have to lie for him.<br/>
<br/>
George left the motorhome and almost instantly felt liberated – the whole place was deserted because of the wind and rain – and set off towards the hotel. He entered the lobby, dripping wet, and smiled apologetically to the lady on reception as he left a trail of rainwater behind him.<br/>
<br/>
            “You are late, mate.” Charles was leant on the wall next to George’s door, barely moving his head to look up as he walked down the corridor.<br/>
            “Ten minutes.” He shook his head and let out a disbelieving sigh. “Give me a break.”<br/>
            “And wet.” Charles finished, following the other man through the door.<br/>
            George immediately pulled off his damp items of clothing. “It’s fucking pouring outside.” He hung his jumper and shirt on the arms of the armchair in the corner of the room to dry off.<br/>
<br/>
Charles had been relieved to see him; he felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders as the lift door pinged open and it was George that stepped out. It was like he forgot everything else as soon as he saw him.<br/>
<br/>
            “Sorry,” George shrugged, drying his bare torso with a fluffy towel and spraying on deodorant, “I was saying bye to Claire and she kept me talking for a bit.” It was only a half-lie; he’d really lost track of time.<br/>
            Charles sat on the edge of the bed and smiled as he watched George run the towel through his hair, fluffing it up. “I didn’t wait long. I was late too, a few minutes.” It felt weird to be in George’s space like this now – intimate, more so than ever before. “You will need to change your trousers, too,” Charles nodded towards George’s soaking ankles, “it’s okay, it’s nothing I haven’t seen, though, now,” he teased, biting his tongue and laying back onto the bed to look at the ceiling.<br/>
            George threw the soggy towel at the older man’s face. “The French are ridiculous.”<br/>
By the time he had fumbled removing the towel and cursed George for calling him French, he had changed into a dry t-shirt and freshly laundered jogging bottoms. “You are no fun.” Charles goaded, grinning as George joined him, laying on the bed.<br/>
<br/>
They laid in quiet peace for a while, enjoying each other’s company, neither one wanting to break the strangely pleasant tension. Both men were tired, Charles especially so, his sleep having been disrupted by the anxiety he’d been feeling for the last couple of weeks.<br/>
<br/>
            “I really did mean it,” George eventually broke the silence, “thank you, for before. It distracted me from… me, my thoughts – you know, reckless abandon.” He paused and turned his head to let Charles speak, but he didn’t move. “I’m sorry if it confused you. Or made you feel anything weird. I know you were quiet after. I really appreciated you listening to me.”<br/>
            Charles sighed and tried to look at George through his peripheral vision, without shifting. “Maybe I didn’t expect to feel the way I did after – so <em>complicated</em>,” he started, speaking slowly, “but it didn’t confuse me.” He brushed his little finger against George’s arm in an act of comfort, or surrender. “It was nicer than I thought.”<br/>
<br/>
George grabbed Charles’ hand, interlocking their fingers. Back to silence. The only sound they could hear was the rain and wind pounding against the balcony window – the white noise adding a symphony to the intimate moment.<br/>
<br/>
            “This is good.” It was Charles’ turn to ruin the moment. “We should keep each other company more often.” He squeezed George’s hand before letting go and sitting up. “It is nice, being with you.”<br/>
            George sat up, too. “You’re going now? Already?” He asked, slightly dejected.<br/>
            Charles looked at his friend apologetically. “I have to do an interview.” He hesitated. “If I could, I would spend all day here.”<br/>
            “Okay,” he replied as Charles stood up, “you can spend all day here.”<br/>
            “I can’t.”<br/>
<br/>
Charles looked at the other man’s face for a moment, staring up at his own beneath his eyelashes. He put a hand on George’s neck and stroked it with his thumb, leaning down and pecking the corner of his mouth, lingering there, waiting for George to deepen the kiss, which he did when he turned his head slightly to catch Charles’ lips with his own – he had more stubble today, George noticed. It felt nice.<br/>
<br/>
            “I’ll see you.” George pulled away, a solemn smile on his face.<br/>
            “Yeah. I’ll see you, too.”<br/>
<br/>
George sat on the bed and switched on the TV – The Simpsons started playing in German and he watched for a few minutes without even noticing, his head still spinning from the half hour he’d just spent with Charles. He soon curled up under the duvet, content, feeling happily confused, and fell asleep.<br/>
<br/>
Charles’ heart was beating through his chest; he didn’t realise how much he had missed the taste of George’s lips on his. As he changed into his Ferrari gear, he noticed that his room seemed emptier than usual. He leant on the side of the sink in the bathroom and puffed out his cheeks. <em>Je suis baisé</em>, he thought. He’d never realised he could feel this way about anyone, let alone George.<br/>
<br/>
A knock on George’s door lulled him out of sleep and he pulled himself out of bed to answer it. Alex.<br/>
<br/>
            “I texted you. I bumped into Aleix and he said you weren’t feeling good.” Alex complained. “Anyway, I was at Max’s and Lando said I should come and get you to play FIFA. You’re the only one that has a chance of beating Max.”<br/>
             “I’m fine, I just needed a break.” George shrugged. “I could go for FIFA.”<br/>
            “Great. Lando texted Charles, too, but he said he’s stuck with press today. I think Sky are doing a feature on him or something, I don’t know. Maybe if we’re still playing later he’ll come by."<br/>
            He nodded along, trying not to think too much about the prospect of potentially seeing Charles again later. “How is everything with you and Max?”<br/>
            Alex looked sad for a moment. “It’s good actually – he is trying to help me with the car, but I haven’t caught a break yet. I can’t qualify high enough and I get raced so hard in the midfield.”<br/>
            “Yeah,” George nodded – solidarity, “I’m sorry.”<br/>
            Alex’s eyes looked panicked. “Sorry, George – I didn’t mean… I know you’re finding it hard, too.”<br/>
            “Let’s just forget about racing and play some FIFA, huh?” George ran ahead, starting a race to Max’s suite, as Alex shouted behind, chasing him.<br/>
<br/>
They played for hours, Lando’s head on Max’s lap, Alex and George taking turns to try to defeat Max’s Barcelona team.<br/>
<br/>
Charles stood outside the door, trying to find the courage to knock – he could hear all four men on the other side of the door, laughing and shouting and mucking around. He was tired after a day of filming, and he thought about walking away when his phone buzzed, George:<br/>
<br/>
            <em>Are you coming mate?<br/>
<br/>
</em>He smiled to himself and quickly replied:<br/>
<br/>
            <em>Yep<br/>
</em><em>            I’m outside<br/>
<br/>
</em>Somebody was stomping towards the door; he knew from the exaggerated thumps that it was Lando, no doubt acting silly for the others’ entertainment.<br/>
<br/>
            “Bienvenue, monsieur.” He declared as he swung open the door. “Make yourself at home.”<br/>
            Charles smirked and slipped off his shoes. “Who is winning?” He pointed at the TV. “For sure it’s Max?”<br/>
<br/>
He walked past George sat on the floor and stroked his hand up his shoulder into his hair, a gesture that to any of the other three men would look friendly, but it was intimate, the touch causing goosebumps to form on George’s arm. He looked at Charles and smiled, scrunching his face a little as a friendly, knowing hello.<br/>
<br/>
            “You’re late, mate.” George teased and earned himself a shove with Charles’ foot, before he sat down next to him on the floor<br/>
            “Oui, but I’m dry,” he responded, confusing everyone else in the room. “No excuses.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Anyone else notice whenever you're in a foreign hotel it's always The Simpsons that comes on first?</p><p>Sorry it's late!! :) </p><p>French:</p><p>Je suis baisé - I am fucked</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. space</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>George had to admit that he was a little bit surprised that Charles had turned up, given that he had avoided the group before, but he was glad he was here now. They stole brushes of each other’s skin as the evening progressed, daring to risk the chance of one of their friends seeing what they were doing, with the hope they’d be able to pass it off as an accident.  They hadn’t discussed keeping it anything but a secret – besides, it <em>wasn’t</em> <em>anything</em>, just a sympathetic fuck and a kiss, that’s all it was.<br/>
<br/>
At some point they’d shuffled close enough to each other, cross-legged on the floor, that their shoulders were touching, George saw Charles smile to himself when he’d realised <em>how</em> close they were to each other; contentment. He was glad they both could find some solace in each other’s touch. The others were angled just right to not see how close they’d shifted, with Alex sat in an armchair and Lando hugging Max’s knee with his head in his lap.<br/>
<br/>
Charles took the controller and beat Max on his first game. It was some kind of luck, though – Max then won the next three in a row. Lando mumbled a complaint to Max for being an ungracious winner – he responded by playfully smacking the younger man’s belly and kissing his hair when he sat up to retaliate, which instantly pacified him as he leant into Max’s touch. Their three friends heckled them teasingly, after which Charles and George shared a look of understanding – a look that was a mix between jealousy at their closeness and appreciation for their connection.<br/>
<br/>
            “So, tell me, Lando,” Charles began, bored and fiddling with his phone after he’d passed the controller back to Alex, “when did you realise you liked Max?” George’s ears pricked up and he twisted around to look at Lando, laid on the sofa; Charles was fishing.<br/>
            “When did I realise that I liked Max?” Lando repeated, pausing his breathing for a second, and he pulled at his fringe, as if it would help him find an answer. “Uh… when he kissed me?” It was a safe choice of moment, he thought.<br/>
            Max scoffed, not moving his eyes away from the game. “That’s a lie, mate.”<br/>
            “No, it isn’t.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at his boyfriend, defiant.<br/>
            “It’s a lie, Lando. You told me once, remember when we got drunk on cocktails at that Silverstone event? Daniel told you it was lemonade?”<br/>
            Lando’s face went a little pale and his eyes wide, a partial memory being unlocked. “I didn’t… did I? That was last year.”<br/>
            Max smiled and nodded. “You did.”<br/>
            “What did I say?” He rubbed his forehead, eyes screwed together trying to suppress the blush that threatened underneath his skin. Alex, Charles and George were exchanging glances, trying not to feel awkward, but mostly trying not to laugh too loudly at their friend’s embarrassment.<br/>
            “You said to me, ‘if I had to fuck any driver, it would be you’.”<br/>
            Lando breathed – relief – he hadn’t embarrassed himself half as much as he thought, there was no profession of love, or even a proper crush, at the very least. “So… what I’m hearing is that I didn’t straight up ask you out?” Max shook his head. Lando relaxed his shoulders back to Max’s lap. “Noted… I should never trust Daniel.”<br/>
            George gave Lando a kind of sympathetic look. He looked like he needed saving. “What about you, Max?”<br/>
            Max paused the game and turned his head away from the TV, a little bit surprised someone had asked him. He hadn’t really thought about it. “There wasn’t a <em>moment</em>; it just was.”<br/>
            They all looked to Lando and he just shrugged. “He’s a mystery to me, too.”<br/>
<br/>
They played a few more games before everyone had to go for dinner – Max won every one, naturally. Between them all, they’d managed to win a few through the evening, except Lando who hadn’t really tried, he had only played a couple of matches after he got taunted by Max for being a sore loser. Lando had then challenged him to Call of Duty later that evening, after dinner and training, and that had ended up in a half-serious row about whether FIFA or COD was a better test of skill (the others had unanimously sided with Lando, much to Max’s annoyance).<br/>
<br/>
            George’s phone buzzed and he knew before he looked it was Aleix summoning him for dinner because it was just as his tummy rumbled. “I have to make a move,” he said to nobody in particular, “it’s been fun.”<br/>
            Charles stood up, too. “I have to go as well, honestly.” George was unsure if he was serious or if he was looking for alone time to talk in the corridor. “We should do this again, if we can.” No one was really sure if he meant that, or if he was just saying something you said after you’d finished hanging out – even Charles wasn’t sure.<br/>
<br/>
They both collected their things as they finished saying goodbyes with fist bumps and as George gave Alex a half-hug, Charles was waiting with the door open. So, he <em>had </em>wanted to talk in the corridor. He waved a final goodbye to Alex, Max and Lando, and started walking down the hallway with Charles, a little bit too close, their hands brushing as they walked, electric.<br/>
<br/>
            Charles turned to the taller man as they waited for the lift to take them between floors and he looked up at him, almost seriously, composing himself. “George, if I had to fuck another driver, it would be you.” He burst out laughing immediately.<br/>
            George punched his shoulder lightly, grinning and shaking his head as they stepped through the doors. “I will take that as a compliment.”<br/>
            “As you should, mon chou.” Charles pushed the button to his and George’s floors – they’d established the day before their exact vicinity to each other. “I meant for it to be one.”<br/>
<br/>
Back in his hotel room, George threw on a fresh Williams hoodie and started to make his way back to the motorhome for dinner. Luckily the hotel was on the track, but unluckily it was still pouring with rain. He put on his raincoat and picked up an umbrella from the lobby.<br/>
<br/>
Despite half the day before being spent in his race suit and not even driving, he was glad to get back in it and back in the car for qualifying – of course, he’d hoped the cars would be able to make it to Q2 again, but even <em>he</em> couldn’t get the car to work on the track, let alone Nicky. He was a little disappointed, but not surprised. The lack of practice the previous day worked against George – he hadn’t been able to drive every corner for himself before the session, hadn’t been able to get a fresh feeling for the track, the only driving he’d done was running a road car around the Nordschleife with Aleix for a PR video earlier in the week. He and his engineers watched as Lando took P8, P5 for Alex, Charles in P4, and Max in his dependable P3. He spent the rest of the day mildly disappointed, but he’d squeezed in some light training and had excused himself early enough to relax in bed.<br/>
<br/>
It was the first time in a long time that he hadn’t spent all weekend feeling sorry for himself. His time was yet to come, he knew that. It was what Toto kept telling him – it was what <em>everyone </em>kept telling him, but it had taken him some extra time to believe it.<br/>
<br/>
Part of him wished Charles would come and knock on the door so he’d have somebody to share his newfound confidence with, but he never did.<br/>
<br/>
Charles checked the results as soon as he left the car – George had ended up dropping out in Q1 and Seb in Q2. He’d treated himself to a too-long shower to soak in the good result ahead of some exercise with Andrea. Sending a message to George had crossed his mind, but he knew that his friend could deal with bad results, as he had before, and didn’t want it to seem like some kind of consolation prize – that maybe it would just twist a knife in the wound, the acknowledgement that he hadn’t done as well today as he had in the last few races.<br/>
<br/>
George got hit in lap 10. He tried his best to get his car in the most convenient place for the stewards to remove it and smiled and shrugged and feigned indifference to all of the engineers as he made his way through the paddock, back to his driver’s room to get changed before joining his team to watch the rest of the race. It was a shake up from the regular podium, with Bottas retiring and Max being promoted into second, Daniel taking the third spot. It should have been Charles, in theory, he thought, but the strategy had been unlucky and let him down. He knew that it would piss him off, so he sent a light condolence text for him to get back to.<br/>
<br/>
Later that evening, he received a reply from Charles – not long after Kimi had sent him a characteristic (polite, yet abrupt) apology text for the shunt. He’d hung around with the team and guests at Williams for just long enough that everyone just thought he was tired when he excused himself to his hotel room; Nicky and Jack both gave him pleading eyes to stay as he said goodbye, and he felt bad for abandoning them in a room of pleasant but boring businessmen and women. Claire smiled sympathetically at him, assuming he wanted to leave because of his shitty race, which was only partly true; he wanted to switch off his brain for so many reasons, but the race didn’t make the top five.<br/>
<br/>
Charles had excused himself from the festivities of the Ferrari motorhome, finding himself a quiet corner in an empty room to relax and steady his dizzy, slightly tipsy head in:<br/>
<br/>
            <em>You should not be pitying me<br/>
</em><em>            It was a good result for the team<br/>
<br/>
</em>George read the text a few times, attempting to decipher whether Charles really meant what he said or if he still had his media head on. It was nice to have a friend that didn’t judge him but still held him at arm’s length, he thought – Alex was his best friend and was superior at handling his disasters, but sometimes he thought Alex knew him too well and would call him out on his bullshit too often. Sometimes he needed the thoughtful hug, not the character assassination. Sometimes he needed the character assassination.<br/>
<br/>
He rubbed his eyes and put his head down.<br/>
<br/>
            “George.” A voice at his door – he hardly heard it, stirring out of sleep.<br/>
<br/>
He pulled himself up, still in his shirt from earlier in the evening, a lot more creased now, and opened his door, not really sure who to expect.<br/>
<br/>
Lando.<br/>
<br/>
The younger man immediately stepped into the room and wrapped his arms around George’s waist, his strength almost pushing him backwards. George instinctively cuddled into him and they stood like that for what felt like a few minutes. He couldn’t figure out if he was drunk, or high, or what. He wasn’t usually the friend anybody came to in a predicament.<br/>
<br/>
            “What’s happened?” He eventually asked, pulling away from Lando and inviting him to sit on the bed with him. He looked at his pupils, they looked huge. “I’m going to call Max.”<br/>
<br/>
Lando didn’t answer, mostly because he wasn’t sure what to say. Max didn’t answer the phone to George, or to George using Lando’s phone.<br/>
<br/>
            “Did you take something?” George questioned, but knowing they had a race in another two weeks’ time, he was doubtful.<br/>
            “No,” Lando managed, and took a deep breath, “we were at this club. And this girl… woman… came to the table and we started talking. It was loud, I couldn’t hear her, I was just nodding and laughing. Then she kissed me; it was friendly, I think, but… I didn’t push her away, but I didn’t… fuck… I just let it happen. Then Carlos came over – he’s texted me like, a hundred times, worried – and now I’m here. Max is at a Red Bull thing with Alex. I didn’t know where else to go.”<br/>
            George nodded sympathetically, relating way more than Lando knew. He had been the same as Lando, almost, to Alex, before – usually for something a bit more reckless than a kiss in a club, but he knew how helpless he was feeling. “Sleep here, Lando. You’ll feel less weird tomorrow, when the adrenaline wears off, trust me. I’ll let Carlos know where you are, and there’s a fresh toothbrush in the bathroom, have a shower if you want – I’ve got a t-shirt and some old shorts you can wear to bed.”<br/>
            “I think a shower would help.” Lando tried to smile.<br/>
<br/>
Lando took the pile of old clothes, reserved for pyjamas, that George gave him and locked himself in the bathroom. George took note of the time to make sure he’d check on him in ten-minute intervals, to make sure he was okay – at least that was the plan until there was another knock on the door. More awake now, and with Alex and Max out of the question, he knew there was really only one person it would be.<br/>
<br/>
            “Lando’s here.” He said, opening the door to Charles.<br/>
<br/>
Charles stumbled through the door, heavily drunk, smiling to himself, overly proud he had managed to make it to George’s room without any help. He kicked off his shoes with an exaggerated movement, to the corner of the room, and opened the balcony door, stepping outside – all without even greeting his newest confidante.<br/>
<br/>
            “Charles, what do you want?” George found it so hard not to grin at Charles being so ostentatious in his stupor.<br/>
            “Ah, I think you know!” Charles pulled a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit one, leaning over the edge of the balcony. “I’ve come to see the driver I most want to fuck.” He waved the pack towards the door without turning, offering them blindly.<br/>
            George sighed and declined, pushing his waving hand away before stepping onto the balcony himself and shutting the door behind him. “Lando is here.” He repeated.<br/>
            Charles turned after blowing smoke away from George’s face, smirking. “Fine, he can join in,” he teased, slurring slightly, “that could be fun.”<br/>
<br/>
He was freaking out internally a bit – on one hand, he had Lando to look after, but on the other, he had Charles essentially offering up his body for the evening. He knew that somehow, he had to satiate Charles’ horniness <em>and</em> make sure Lando was getting through the night okay. He put a hand on the side of Charles’ face and leant in, kissing him desperately, pleadingly, without any measure of passion, noticing his tobacco breath as his mouth opened to let him deepen the kiss. Not hating the taste on him. It felt like he had communicated everything he’d needed to with the kiss.<br/>
<br/>
            “Lando’s had a really bad night.” He looked at Charles with begging eyes, pulling away. “We need to help him.”<br/>
            Charles’ smirk turned into a slightly worried look. “Aye, okay, okay.” He stubbed the cigarette out on the barrier and flicked the stub over the edge. “But one of these days, you owe me a proper kiss, George Russell.”<br/>
            “Oui, Charles. Merci.”<br/>
<br/>
After filling him in with the story, swearing him to secrecy, George knocked on the bathroom door and checked on Lando as Charles made three cups of tea, a decaf for Lando. He wasn’t even sure if he would drink the tea, or how he took it, and he knew for sure that he, personally, was too drunk to be handling boiling water. He called room service and ordered enough dessert for six people.<br/>
<br/>
To say Lando was surprised to see Charles in the room was an understatement – at first, he thought George had called him for backup, but after realising Charles was drunk and reeked of cigarettes, he just wondered why he was even there at all, but he appreciated the warm mug he thrust into his hands as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom, even if he didn’t really like tea.<br/>
<br/>
The three of them sat on the huge queen-sized bed, surrounded by fruit and cake, Lando feeling protected by his two friends in the middle, eating the biggest bit of Black Forest cake any of them had ever seen, as Charles and George made their way through a box of mini doughnuts and a melon platter that they’d positioned on the younger man’s lap.<br/>
<br/>
It wasn’t long before Max’s name popped up on Lando’s phone, no doubt having heard the worried voicemail George had left for him an hour earlier.<br/>
<br/>
            “Mate, what’s up?” George could hear Max was smashed.<br/>
            George felt at least slightly reassured that someone else was looking out for Lando. “Max, it’s George. Lando’s with me, he’s good.”<br/>
            “And me!” Charles hiccupped, his mouth full. “It’s Charles.”<br/>
            Max laughed, drunkenly – the distant sound of the party in the background. “I know that’s Charles. Can I speak to Lando… or?”<br/>
            George shrugged at Lando, offering him the phone, but he scrunched his face and shook his head. “Sorry, mate. He’s not up to it at the moment.”      <br/>
            “Is he drunk? Carlos <em>knows</em> he hates drinking.”<br/>
            “He’s not drunk, he’s just… not had a great night – and I was worried about him, so I called, but I have got him now. He’s staying with me… and Charles.” George tried to calm Max as much as possible, fully expecting him to ram the bedroom door open when he returned to the hotel. “Carlos knows where he is, too.”<br/>
<br/>
The fact that Carlos knew where Lando had ended up seemed to relax Max slightly, and he agreed that his boyfriend should stay where he was. Once off the call, George helped Charles to comfort the distraught Lando between them, his head in his hands. George wanted to tell him that it would all be okay, that Max would forgive him and, more importantly, that he’d forgive himself, but he didn’t know if it was true or not. He hadn’t forgiven himself for ignoring almost every person he’d slept with in his pursuit of control, of direction. He shot Charles an appreciative look over the top of Lando’s bowed head. Charles laced their hands together behind Lando’s shoulders, not really caring if he knew what they were doing or not in his drunken haze, guessing he’d presume it was just a show of camaraderie between the pair, or a result of Charles’ overfamiliar personality, a huge contrast to their own British nature.<br/>
<br/>
Charles went back on the balcony to smoke another cigarette before the buzz of the alcohol wore off, just as Lando started to feel a little bit less regretful.<br/>
<br/>
            “You don’t have to tell Max what happened,” George shrugged to Lando, “not if you don’t want to. I won’t… we won’t…”<br/>
            Lando shook his head. “No… I want to.”<br/>
            “Yeah, I know.” George reclined in the bed, exhausted after a long day. “It was a mistake.”<br/>
            “I just don’t know how to explain it to Max. Not without him overreacting.” Lando gulped. “Do you think Charles wants to sleep next to you?” Changing the subject. So, he had noticed.<br/>
            George nodded. “I think he’d like that.” Too drained to speak in more than simple sentences.<br/>
            “No weird stuff.” Lando yawned.<br/>
<br/>
George and Lando switched places, and when Charles returned, slightly confused, Lando made up an excuse about feeling sick, and maybe he’d have to run to the loo at a moment’s notice. Charles knew it was a lie, but he was satisfied he and George would be closer. He just wondered who had asked – had Lando offered, or had George requested? He, too, had changed into pyjamas of George’s offering and giggled as he slid under the duvet, thinking about if any of his team saw him like this, in all of the Williams gear. He slipped his hand in George’s and watched on as George sleepily stroked Lando’s hair with his spare hand, his head resting awkwardly but comfortably on his upper torso.<br/>
<br/>
A phone ringing and a light tap on the door woke George at 6am. Lando had, at some point, wriggled free, probably overheating, and was now pushing his body up tiredly to answer the door. Charles, meanwhile, had entangled himself in George’s legs and wrapped himself around his middle – George gently placed his hand at the base of his neck, which he hummed at and leant into.<br/>
<br/>
George drowsily watched on as Max, looking like he hadn’t slept in three days, embraced Lando, who was at first tense, but melted into the hug after a couple of seconds. He knew they’d be okay and subconsciously pulled Charles in tighter, stirring him slightly.<br/>
<br/>
Noticing George was awake, Max stepped into the room and perched on the side of the bed, leaving Lando awkwardly standing in the space just outside the door.<br/>
<br/>
            “Thank you for caring enough.” It was weirdly one of the kindest things Max had ever said to him. “This is weird.” He pointed in a jerky motion that encompassed the sleeping body of Charles, then George’s arms around him. “I hope you’re… happy?”<br/>
            George’s initial reaction was to throw Charles off the bed, but he stopped himself from flinching. What had Lando said? What did <em>this</em> look like? “It’s not like that.” It kind of was like that. “He’s drunk, he’s just ended up like this.” Mostly true. He didn't know how much of it was him.<br/>
            Max nodded, a sceptical smirk on his face. “Thanks again, George.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it's late but it's long!!!! :)</p><p>there was some drama with fanfics in the week so I decided not to upload and... well... this chapter got longer and longer!</p><p>lesson of the week though... it's really hard to write a scene with three, let alone five people in 😳</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. turn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>there is a short n sweet sex scene in the second half of this chapter, please avoid that bit if you don't want to read that!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Lando had quietly collected his things and promised to return the washed pyjamas at the next race, George noticed the bed felt bizarrely empty now. He lightly moved his hand up to the back of Charles’ head on his chest, his body a soothing deadweight pressing down – Max and Lando had been inhumanly silent while getting ready to leave, undoubtedly well-practiced from sneaking around each other’s rooms, so Charles had barely moved, his only sounds his heavy, drunken, asleep breathing.<br/><br/>George checked the clock, yep, it was <em>still</em> 6am – he was flying home in the evening, and guessed Charles was doing the same, another two weeks between races. He dreaded to think how rough the man lying on him would feel when he woke up, probably similar to the hangover he’d felt himself after the festivities following the last race. A lot had changed in him since then – before, he’d have found a quick fuck, an immediate rush, and kicked them out swiftly out of guilt. But the night before, he hadn’t excused himself from the sponsors’ event to find a party. He’d been the person Lando chose for refuge, something he wouldn’t have done if Max hadn’t let him stumble in when he felt like he was at rock bottom, looking for Alex.<br/><br/>He caught himself stroking his hand through Charles’ hair contentedly as he closed his eyes to chase sleep. This was different, more intimate, than when they’d fucked. Back then, Charles had pretended not to be flustered afterwards – they’d spoken about Lando and Max a bit, gossiped about the other drivers in general, but tension was thick in the air. George had known it would take him a while to adjust to whatever he was feeling, whether it was curiosity, confusion, regret… but whatever it was, he’d seemed to have accepted it now; he had grown into it.<br/><br/>About an hour later, Charles awoke, head thumping, frantically scouring his vague memory from the previous night to make sure he hadn’t said anything too stupid. He smiled to himself when he noticed George had nestled into his unconscious embrace, and then moved slightly, unsettling his stomach.<br/><br/>            He nudged his hand hard against George’s belly, to wake him. “George, mon estomac… peux-tu bouger? <em>Mossa</em>?” No, English. “You need to move now – I’m sick.” He waited a second for the other man to shuffle and free him. “Rapidement, merci, merci.” As he stood, his skull exploded in hungover pain – he had to ignore it as he rushed to the bathroom for relief.</p><p>He puked every time he drank; Andreas had tried to give him every tip he knew to prevent it, but no matter what, if he drank enough to get drunk, he’d end up with his head in a toilet bowl in the morning.</p><p>            George lightly knocked on the door to get Charles’ attention. “There are painkillers in with my stuff.” he spoke through the door once Charles had made some kind of noise of acknowledgment. “Take a shower.”<br/>            “Merci, George.” Charles groaned, leaning his arm onto the toilet seat and his head onto his arm. “You don’t have to look after me, I’m okay. I’m used to this. I can go?”<br/>            George rolled his eyes – he wished he could do it loudly enough that Charles could hear. “Don’t be like that. Stay. I want you to stay.” He waited for a reply but there was none. “I’m here if you need me.” He stood at the bathroom door for a minute, pausing to hear any requests, but slunk back to the bed when the shower started running.<br/><br/>George couldn’t help but stare when Charles came out of the bathroom, dressed only in a towel – he looked tired, but George still thought he looked so <em>good </em>with his wet hair flopping in his face and his muscles showing through his skin, sprinkled with splashes. He groaned as he collapsed onto the bed, face first, immediately grabbing George and pulling him into an awkward but comfortable hug. It was always nice not to face a hangover alone and he was thankful for the company.<br/><br/>            “I like to be close to you.” He grumbled into the pillow.<br/>            George slid down the bed and onto his shoulder, bringing his face level with Charles’. “I know.” He put his hand on the side of the other man’s face and ran his thumb over his ear – silent reciprocation.<br/>            Charles shuffled his head slightly so he could speak easier. “I was thinking,” he began, speaking groggily, “do you want to come to Monaco? For a few days? <em>Can you</em>… come to Monaco?”<br/>            George tried to think for a moment. There was no reason he couldn’t – he had the next few days off from training and no factory commitments, he hadn’t promised to see anybody. He just wasn’t spontaneous; he never had been. Thoughtless, sure, but never unexpectedly so. “I’ll… ask to change my flight,” he replied without fully thinking it through. His answer surprised him; impulsion, triumphant over sensibility. And before he had a chance to overthink it, he’d picked up his phone and texted Williams’ travel manager, pleading for a flight transfer.<br/><br/>Charles drifted in and out of sleep until noon after he’d texted the team that they wouldn’t see him for breakfast, but George took a quick shower and slipped out, ever the obedient staff member, to eat with his team and discuss the race with everybody, fit in a post-race recovery session, and provide a few extra comments for the PR team; he figured he’d have to keep in everyone’s good books to justify the flight amendment, which the travel manager had confirmed upon seeing him, jokily rolling her eyes and presuming he’d arranged something with Alex. Almost everything had been packed up and was ready for departure, and it would have looked like the race had never happened if it weren’t for all of the rubbish flying around in the wind, having escaped the clean-up crew. He tried, tried, <em>tried</em> not to think about Charles earlier, half-naked in his hotel room, but had to excuse himself before lunch to see if he was still there and if he was feeling better. He convinced himself it was hospitality, really.<br/><br/>            “You’re still here.” George acknowledged as he opened the door, Charles was sat reclining shirtless on the bed, eating a bowl of fruit with just a pair of jogging bottoms on. George would be lying if he said it didn’t wake his cock up a little, especially after spending most of the morning trying <em>not </em>to think about exactly that.<br/>            “I left to change my clothes,” he admitted, “but I came back. Your bed is more comfortable than mine,” he relayed his fake excuse with a smirk on his face.<br/>            George started folding a few of his clothes that hadn’t made it back to his bag yet. “The only difference is that bed smells like me and Lando.”<br/><br/>Oh shit, Lando – George wondered how he was doing, if he and Max were actually okay.<br/><br/>            “Have you spoken to him this morning?” He asked Charles and chewed his lip, guilt pre-emptively setting in. He should have texted him the moment he left.<br/>            Charles smiled reassuringly. “George, they are adults.” It helped dissipate the feeling a little.<br/><br/>George shot him a text anyway, a vague ‘<em>Everything okay?</em>’.<br/><br/>            “Don’t worry. Come and sit.” Charles patted the opposite side of the bed.<br/>            He sighed in defeat. “Okay,” he replied as he dragged his feet for a few steps, giving in and lying down next to him.<br/>            Charles started idly stroking George’s arm, tracing the space between his freckles with a fingertip. “Did I say anything stupid last night?”<br/>             “Nothing out of the ordinary.” George shrugged, shuffling closer until they were pressed up against each other. “I mean, you said Lando joining us fucking would be fun, but he didn’t hear anything, he was in the shower.”<br/>            “What did he… did <em>he</em> say anything?”<br/>            “I’m not sure Max believed me this morning when I said you were cuddling me because you were drunk,” he replied and laughed softly, “and Lando… you were trying to hold my hand behind his back. He knows something is up.”<br/>            Charles sighed – not out of contempt, more relief, and nestled his head into George’s shoulder. He could deal with ‘something is up’. He could find a way to dismiss that. “George, it's perfect like this. I don’t want anybody to know.”<br/>            He kissed the side of Charles’ head. “Me either.”<br/><br/>Charles twisted to look at him, their faces impossibly close without touching. They looked into each other’s pleading, dark blue eyes, and their lips connected in an impatient kiss, like they’d both been desperate for it, which they had. The kiss George had pulled into the night before had been purely persuasion, passionless, pulling Charles out of his sexually suggestive mood to request his help with Lando, and he doubted the other man even properly remembered it. They took turns to playfully bite at the other’s bottom lip, the room feeling warmer with each passing second. Charles was the first to break away from the kiss, to undo George’s belt – he couldn’t help but need to see and feel the effect he was having on him – being shirtless hadn’t been entirely (or even a little bit) coincidental, but he was still new to the idea of seducing men.<br/><br/>George inhaled sharply as Charles’ hand rubbed and grabbed at his cock through his boxers, before reconnecting the kiss. He was completely hard now, his pent-up energy he’d been trying to suppress all morning finally being released.<br/><br/>            “If you don’t suck my cock, I might have to fight you,” he breathed, pulling his mouth away from Charles’.<br/>            The other man smiled as he sat back on his knees and bit his lip suggestively. “I knew you were kinky really,” he laughed. “But I haven’t done it before.”<br/>            “Just… do it like you like to have it done.” George suggested, less sexily and a little out of character, really trying to help, “take it slow. I’ll be patient. I’ll tell you what feels good.”<br/><br/>The dominant feeling in Charles’ head was panic. He knew that once he started there would be no going back, really. It had been a long time since anything he’d done during sex had been different to him in such a big way – fucking George was still just <em>fucking</em>; it was different and nice, but the actions had all been the same. It freaked him out a bit that somehow, he’d found having sex with George easier than this. This was totally new, he’d never done anything <em>similar</em> to sucking a cock, there was so much more that could go wrong. But he’d also never <em>wanted </em>to do anything quite so much before.<br/><br/>George was stroking Charles’ back, patient, as he lazily played with his painfully hard cock. He knew Charles was going over all of the possible outcomes of learning how to suck a dick for the first time – it was the same way he felt whenever someone asked him to do it… it was usually the other way around – people were usually eager to please <em>him</em>, not him them.<br/><br/>            “You don’t have to right now,” he kissed the brown mop on the top of the Ferrari driver’s head supportively, “you don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to do.”<br/>            Charles took a deep breath. “I want to,” he said with conviction, “but I don’t want it to be disappointing for you.”<br/>            “A disappointing blow job is better than no blow job,” George replied, matter-of-factly, “in that regard, there is nothing that can go wrong – <em>I will help you</em>. Any time you want to stop, tell me. Just don’t bite.” They both laughed.<br/>            “Okay.” It was a determined ‘okay’. That speech had actually reassured Charles.<br/>            George smiled to himself. “You’re in charge. Where do you want me?”<br/><br/>Charles asked George to sit on the edge of the bed as he knelt between his legs – that’s what he’d always thought seemed easiest for both people – George could use his hand to control his head if he wanted to, Charles could fist his own cock, but most importantly, he could move away at any moment. He was less worried now, George’s forgiving nature encouraging him, knowing that if he felt uncomfortable, he would be able to bow out without judgement.<br/><br/>He looked up to George and wet his lips. Less panic now, George’s eyes were kind and the fingers stroking through his hair were doing wonders for his nerves, creating some kind of calming atmosphere. Charles put a hand on the base of George’s cock, a familiar start – he’d done this before – and moved his head closer. The foreign hand in his hair became more forceful now, not overly so, and helped to guide his mouth, encouraging. Charles licked up the shaft, before closing his mouth over the head. When he did, it was like a switch flipped in his mind; the worries almost completely gone. George was impossibly hard and tried his hardest to stifle a moan as Charles started taking more of his cock in his mouth, more confident now, feeling it pulse. George used his hand to set the pace – slow but steady – and the depth – a friendly, beginner amount.<br/><br/>            After a while, Charles detached himself with a ‘pop’ and sat back on his knees. “Is it… okay?”<br/>            George nodded. “Really good, Charles.” And shut his eyes, thinking. “Try… using your hand? Like, mouth and hand together.”<br/><br/>Charles wanted to smack himself for not thinking of that earlier. He was keen to try out the advice. George found it so difficult not to meet Charles’ mouth with thrusts of his own, trying urgently to hold onto constraint. His orgasm came as a surprise to both of them, Charles withdrawing at the last second to avoid swallowing any cum – understandable, George thought, for his first time, as he came over his own stomach.<br/><br/>            “Shit.” George laughed. “Sorry.”<br/>            Charles grinned as he stood up, his own cock requiring attention. “I was okay, then?” he chuckled, and joined George on the bed, jerking his hand up and down his own erection.<br/>            George placed his hand on Charles’, slowing down his movements. “I owe you one.”<br/><br/>That promise was what Charles needed to push him over the edge and he came all over both their hands, before standing up to wash his hands in the sink and get a drink, George following behind to clean himself up.<br/><br/>            “I’ll text you later,” he assured, tiptoeing slightly to kiss George’s cheek, a friendly goodbye. “I’ll see you on the flight maybe.”<br/><br/>As Charles left, George’s phone vibrated on the bedside cabinet, a reply from Lando:<br/><br/>            <em>Everything okay.</em><br/><br/>Isn’t it just, he thought.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all for reading :) I so appreciate the kudos!!!!</p><p> </p><p>French translations:</p><p>mon estomac - my stomach<br/>peux-tu bouger - can you move<br/>(BONUS! Italian) mossa - move<br/>rapidement - quickly</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. soft</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>George felt a bit weird about going to Monaco with Charles and he was unsure how he expected him to explain his presence on the plane to the other drivers also returning home, therefore, that’s what he thought about all afternoon while absent-mindedly packing his things – firstly, trying to convince himself that everyone else would think his appearance was entirely ordinary, and then, the realisation that honestly and truthfully, nobody would care. Well, Alex would, maybe Max, was Lando going? And that would only be if they even saw him on the flight. He made a mental note to stay well clear of those three if he could.<br/>
<br/>
He FaceTimed with his parents to distract him, discussing the race (they’d <em>promised </em>to come to more this year, but they were just <em>so busy</em> – he knew they’d grown tired of travelling years before, probably even from when his older brother was still karting), and they asked how Alex and Lando were – <em>fine</em>, he’d said, <em>both happy</em>. George vaguely mentioned he wouldn’t be going home right away, and they didn’t ask any more questions about it, just told him to have a nice time and to let them know when he was back so they could visit. Maybe it was more unremarkable than he thought.<br/>
<br/>
It was a long hour’s drive to the airport, and he’d ended up in a car with a couple of Nicky’s mechanics, who he didn’t know that well, and someone from the marketing team. He’d said some niceties to everyone before pulling his hood up and over his eyes, pretending to be asleep, listening to music in his headphones. The lady sat next to him gave him a quick, polite nudge when they arrived, and he grabbed his bag from the boot – he’d travelled light anyway, knowing all weekend he’d mostly be wearing team kit or sponsored shit, which all travelled with the motorhomes. He’d spent some time that afternoon contemplating where he would get clean clothes from when he got to Monaco but decided to deal with that once he got there – he knew <em>people </em>there, he kept having to remind himself of that. He wasn’t visiting the Australian outback. In Monaco, it’s densely populated, there’s high-end clothes shops on every street, residents and tourists to come up to him to introduce themselves, say hello, shake his hand, ask for a selfie. He’d always be safe.<br/>
<br/>
The aeroplane wasn’t as small and intimate as some of the ones they took between races and Nice, and George managed to lose himself in the crowd a bit with a hoodie and a scarf, even though the flight wasn’t busy, probably having been bought out by teams and companies whose staff had ended up staying or flying elsewhere.<br/>
<br/>
Charles sat next to Pierre on the plane – it wasn’t his designated seat, but he was going to sit there anyway. They had spoken a few times the day before; just after the race, as Pierre had done extremely well, and Charles wanted to extend his congratulations, somehow also managing to complain about his own result even though he finished ahead of his friend; and in the evening, when Pierre had texted to invite him to the party with Red Bull and Toro Rosso. But in Charles’ infinite drunken wisdom, he instead chose to stay in George’s hotel room, where he wasn’t even entirely sure he was necessary <em>or</em> welcome, and by the time Pierre had sent him the offer, he had been compelled to stay by George’s tongue down his throat.<br/>
<br/>
            Charles shook his head and smiled as his friend flattened his fringe to his forehead. “Tu es obsédé par tes cheveux.” <em>You are obsessed with your hair</em>. He laughed<em>.<br/>
</em>            “Salut, salut, Charlie!” Pierre ignored the banter, and he slapped his hand to Charles’ shoulder in greeting while he was shoving a bag under the seat in front.<br/>
            “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the party last night. I had sweettalked a bartender into giving me a bottle of Cîroc and I… ended up elsewhere.” He knew Pierre wouldn’t ask questions, he’d always been too polite and shy to start an interrogation – sometimes Charles thought it seemed like he didn’t care to ask, but he found thinking about that made him anxious that, somehow, he’d upset or disappointed Pierre, so he tried not to.<br/>
            The Frenchman shrugged, “you were busy. We’ll celebrate another time, together. I missed you.” Charles sensed some dejection in there but tried to disregard it.<br/>
<br/>
The window seat was always the safest, George had figured. He shuffled in his seat, facing further to face the clouds, when he felt someone flop down in the one next to him, slightly too close and too confident for it to not be someone he knew. He turned his head back in the other direction to identify the culprit.<br/>
<br/>
            “You don’t fucking leave me alone, do you?” He half-joked at Lando in a hushed voice so nobody could hear him over the hum of the engines and hubbub of chatter.<br/>
            The younger man smiled so wide his eyes disappeared. A Cheshire cat smile. “I wanna know why you’re not going home, so no.”<br/>
            “I’m going to Alex’s.” He replied, facing back to the window and looking out over the clouds, hoping Lando believed his explanation.<br/>
            “You’re lying.” Guess not, then.<br/>
            George realised the stupid little lie he just told made the truth worse – now Lando knew he was trying to cover something up. “Who else knows I’m here?” He changed the subject.<br/>
            “Nobody, I don’t think. I’ve only seen you now… I’m looking for Max and you’re like… you kinda look the same in a hoodie. He went to talk to somebody.” He sounded a little bit sad.<br/>
            “You’re… good? With Max?” Really changing the subject.<br/>
            Lando nodded. “He shrugged it off like it wasn’t even an issue,” he replied, but he didn’t seem pleased about it. “I suppose I overreacted slightly. But I wanted him to be angry or disappointed with me or <em>something</em>. If he thought that was nothing… I dunno… what doesn’t <em>he</em> tell <em>me</em>?” He shook his head and rubbed his temples, as if to shake the feelings out of his head. “You… flying to France. It’s Charles, isn’t it? I won’t tell anyone… not even Max.”<br/>
            George screwed his eyes shut. “It <em>isn’t</em> Charles.” It wasn’t,<em> right</em>? It wasn’t <em>Charles</em>. It was sex. It was being there for a friend who asked him to go.<br/>
            “Okay.” Lando grabbed his hand and squeezed it, an abnormally compassionate gesture from him. It said way more than words could: <em>here for you if you need me; you can trust me;</em> <em>I know you’re lying but I don’t know why you’re lying</em>. “I’m gonna go before someone comes over. If you’re hiding… you should cover your hands in your hoodie. They look too much like your hands.”<br/>
            “You’re the only man in the world that can identify me by my hands, Land. I’m fine.”<br/>
            “They’re nice hands,” he mumbled, disentangling his fingers and standing up. “Thanks for last night, Russell.”<br/>
            George twisted his body and lightly gripped Lando’s wrist to stop him walking away, big eyes looking up at him imploringly. “I’ll see you in Monaco, maybe?”<br/>
            “Maybe.” Lando smirked and winked clumsily, even a little charmingly. “Text me later.”<br/>
<br/>
Charles fell asleep with his head squashed against Pierre’s shoulder; the weird gentle buzz of the plane had somehow harmonised perfectly with what little was left of his hangover to create the perfect napmosphere. Pierre tried his hardest not to wake him as he played on his phone, even taking a couple of selfies with Charles’ lifeless smushed face to wind him up about later, before settling his head on top of the other man’s and dozing himself.<br/>
<br/>
            “Es-tu endormi, calamar?” <em>Are you asleep, calamar?</em> Charles yawned, feeling the weight of his friend’s head on his.<br/>
            “Always with the silly nicknames?” Pierre yawned back.<br/>
            Charles laughed softly, so as not to disrupt their position – it was comforting to sit like this with Pierre – they hadn’t spent much time together since the start of the season. “Yep, always.”<br/>
            “Well done in the race. Too bad the strategy didn’t work out.”<br/>
            “It’s racing.”<br/>
            Pierre anxiously fiddled with the infotainment screen, checking when they were due to arrive. “We’ll be landing soon. Thirty minutes.” It was something to say, really.<br/>
            Charles shut his eyes, resting his eyelids. “Have you ever kissed a man?” He asked, unphased, voice totally unbothered.<br/>
            The question didn’t surprise Pierre, Charles was always coming out with weird questions like this. “No, and I do not want to kiss you either.” He snickered and tried not to wonder why Charles had asked that question. He took a slightly less humoured tone. “I’ve always had girlfriends.”<br/>
            “Me too.” Charles reciprocated honestly. “But it doesn't feel that strange. It’s better than you expect.”<br/>
<br/>
They separated themselves and sat in awkward silence as the pilot told everyone to put their seatbelts on. Charles wondered if that was one odd question too far. But he did feel liberated, having somewhat mistakenly told Pierre he was attracted to men. Or at least that he had a newfound appreciation for everyone, regardless.  He imagined it was a similar feeling to when George had told him that he slept with men as well as women. He also felt the tension George must have felt when awaiting a reaction from him: tentative, nervous.<br/>
<br/>
            “Have you started dating someone?” Pierre finally spoke after some quiet thought.<br/>
            Charles took in a deep breath and replied, “not really. I was just curious about you.”<br/>
<br/>
The hug Pierre pulled him into was sudden, unexpected, completely silent – a little cumbersome, considering the seatbelts tethering them to their seats. Charles thought it must have been the longest hug they’d ever had.<br/>
<br/>
George made sure he was one of the last people to leave the plane, hiding with his scarf over his face, faking a nap. He was kind of over trying to keep away from everyone now but figured he’d at least try and keep up his end of the deal. He could distantly hear Lando trying to usher everyone out of the plane quickly, helping Max and Alex to get their baggage out of the overhead storage, to speed up the exit. He hoped Lando would stick to his promise and not spread any rumours, especially since he hadn’t corroborated anything he’d said. The boy was not to be trusted with secrets; too clumsy.<br/>
<br/>
He fell back as he stepped onto the boarding bridge, too – he was mostly certain nobody he knew was at the back of the pack now, and he texted Charles:<br/>
<br/>
<em>Over it<br/>
</em><em>Come and meet me<br/>
<br/>
</em>Charles waved goodbye to Pierre, making a beeline back in the direction he’d just walked from. Pierre tried to protest to him leaving the group, away from the stewards paving their way through the quiet airport, but gave up once Charles was more than ten metres away. He hadn’t agreed with George’s choice to sneak around – he thought that he could have made up literally <em>any </em>justification to be in Monaco, that he was inviting trouble on himself by being aloof. He had rolled his eyes at the call he’d had just before they’d left the hotel, George saying ‘I’m going to try and keep out of everyone’s way, I don’t want the questions’.<br/>
<br/>
            “You are an idiot.” Charles pushed George’s shoulder playfully as he pulled him into a hug.<br/>
            George sighed, tired, bored, relieved. “Lando knows I’m here anyway. He said he’d keep quiet.”<br/>
            “Let’s just get the car.”<br/>
<br/>
George walked through the door to the flat behind Charles and dropped his bags at the door, exhaustion hitting him. He hadn’t slept for more than five minutes on the plane and hadn’t slept well the night before, not with the warmth of three bodies in his bed.<br/>
<br/>
            “Pizza?” Charles asked, pulling a stack of takeaway menus from the drawer. “My guilty pleasures.”<br/>
            George smiled sleepily. “Nap first.” He tried not to sound like a grumpy child.<br/>
            “Oui.” Charles returned his smile warmly as he started making his way to the bedroom. “Nap first.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>travel chapter - but with bonus pierre 🥺</p><p>hope everyone is okay! :) kudos always appreciated </p><p>stay safe xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. squash</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>leetle tiny bit of a sex scene, not a huge part of this chapter, towards the end, so pls skip if you don't want to read that</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles wasn’t tired. He watched George sleep. He laid on his side, head propped on his elbow, and followed the flawless outline with his eyes, backlit by the Monaco sunset. For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself falling in love, but forced himself to quickly shift the thought. He didn’t even know if he wanted that. He knew George didn’t want that. Charles closed his eyes for a moment, taking away the temptation to look, but instinctively they reopened. He wondered if he would ever stop staring.<br/>
<br/>
            “What do you want to drink now?” George shouted above the loud music of the club.<br/>
            Charles stepped towards him, brazenly too close, and placed his empty glass on the bar. “Whiskey with Diet Coke,” he yelled back. “I’m going for a <em>sigaretta</em>.”<br/>
            “It doesn’t make it good for you just because you…” George started, slurring, but Charles had already started walking towards the smoking area on the balcony, “…say it in Italian,” he finished, mumbling.<br/>
<br/>
Even though it was winding down, it was busy for a Monday evening. Monaco always was. And nobody really cared who he was, at least not the same way they cared who Charles was – a national treasure, someone who mixed with the same circles as royalty. They still both got free drinks, though. He carried his weird brown alcoholic cocktail (he’d pointed at something random on the card at the bar) and Charles’ whiskey and Coke outside and searched the tops of people’s heads for the fashionably scruffy, brown hair with a bandana around it.<br/>
<br/>
It wasn’t long before he found him, backed into a corner by a couple of women who clearly recognised Monaco’s finest resident F1 driver. One of them already had her arm lingering around his waist from taking a selfie and George tried not to notice how he let her keep it there. Or how his hand was hanging loosely behind her back. It almost looked romantic. George could feel his heart beating through his chest, battling with his brain for the right to be angry or jealous – but he was <em>drunk</em>, he thought, it must be because he’s drunk.<br/>
<br/>
He stood as they spoke French, or Italian… or a mixture of both… for a few minutes; they had recognised George as well (possibly only once Charles had told them who he was), and the second woman was trying to get closer to him. He was just trying to enjoy the sobering sensation of the sea air and turned to lean with his elbows over the balcony edge. She was beautiful enough – a couple of weekends previously and she would already be on her way to his bed if she had wanted to be, but George would be the first to admit that <em>Charles had changed everything</em>. Luckily, it wasn’t long before another guy came over and asked her to go and dance and relieved George from the barrage of broken conversation – not that he even noticed, he was busy, mind blank, casting his eyes across the port at the reflection of the moon and stars in the sea.<br/>
<br/>
            “You are thinking.” Charles had managed to shake off the woman by telling her that his friend didn’t feel well. He leaned back against the railing with his elbows leaning on top of it.<br/>
            George emptied the last dregs of his drink into his mouth and twisted around, copying Charles’ position. “I’m too drunk to think <em>or </em>talk,” he slurred.<br/>
            “One last drink. Let me get you one last drink. The bar will close soon.” Charles pleaded – the same tone he’d pleaded in to get George to come out in the first place.<br/>
            “Fine.” He laughed at Charles’ desperate tone – he didn’t mean to laugh but it escaped his lips. “Get me whatever you’re having.”<br/>
<br/>
Letting the girl put her arm around him was a mistake. It had felt awkward; he didn’t think that he’d implied he was interested in more than a quick selfie and had been trying to figure out how to push her away. Charles was just <em>too drunk</em> to think of the words he needed to say to tell her it made him uncomfortable, and his body too unreliable with its movements to shuffle out of the embrace stealthily. He watched as George all but rejected the other woman trying to get close to him – he had done exactly what he wished he himself had done – what he would have done if he was a bit less drunk. He breathed in one last breath of fresh air before entering the sweaty club, the stench of hundreds of different perfumes and aftershaves hitting him, as well as the sweet, sticky smell of spilt drinks. He was enjoying himself, but this really wasn’t his favourite way to get drunk. He liked an intimate after party.<br/>
<br/>
George had attracted a bit of a crowd whilst Charles was gone – a couple of what looked like suave-looking businessmen were trying to invite him elsewhere once the bar closed, who were in turn being followed by some people they’d successfully enlisted. George looked at Charles with a ‘<em>save me</em>’ expression on his face. Their body language was close – flirtatious, almost – one of them with a hand on George’s bicep that didn’t seem to be moving away.<br/>
<br/>
            “Non, nous n’allons pas.” Charles said bluntly to the men, without saying hello, and passed George his drink. “We have places to be.” It was already irresponsible of them that they had both gone out in Monte Carlo without any security, although at the start of the evening, George had sent Lando his location and Charles had sent Pierre his – but they were both not stupid enough to risk going anywhere private.<br/>
            “Ah, we are celebrating. I was hoping for an answer from your friend.” One of the men said, in an accent Charles couldn’t quite figure out. Somewhere European.<br/>
            “He is too drunk to answer you.” And too nice to reject your invitation. “Please, we are trying to have a quiet night.” He grabbed George’s wrist and squeezed before letting go, as if to reassure him.<br/>
<br/>
The men muttered between themselves and then left. George didn’t need protecting but it was nice to feel like Charles wanted to defend him, in the same way he’d wanted to say something to the woman that had been holding Charles’ waist. George had struggled with thinking that people were only his friend because they felt like they had to be, or because of who he was. Alex flying home immediately without passing ‘Go’ after the Russian race and not telling him hadn’t really helped – he told Alex everything. Almost everything. It was refreshing.<br/>
<br/>
            George grinned defiantly. “We could have gone.” He antagonised.<br/>
            “Gone and got fucking kidnapped? And the FIA pay a ransom?” Charles creased up imagining the thought and rolled his eyes, realising he was the more sober of the pair. “We finish these, we go home.” He downed half of his drink and swapped it for George’s almost full one, knowing he wouldn’t realise, in an attempt to save him from the inevitability of sitting over and sharing the toilet bowl in the morning.<br/>
            “Oui, Charlie.”<br/>
<br/>
Charles smiled down at his chest – nobody really called him Charlie, only his really close friends as a term of endearment. To hear it come from George’s mouth was strange, but nice – it sent a warm feeling through his body – or maybe that was the alcohol. He knew they had to start wrapping up the night now, before they got wasted enough to become too careless.<br/>
<br/>
When they got back to Charles’ apartment, George immediately undressed and climbed into the huge bed, revelling in the crisp, clean sheets and waiting for his host to join him – it was a few minutes before Charles had locked up and brushed his teeth before he entered the bedroom (he had been composing himself, really)<br/>
<br/>
            “Fuck or sleep?” He asked the man laid on the bed, nonchalantly, wearing an expression that tried to convey that he hadn’t been questioning what to say since walking through the door.<br/>
            George looked away from his phone screen to face Charles, his movement a little clumsy. “Not like this. I want to remember when we fuck,” he slurred in reply, honestly, “you could practice sucking my cock, though,” he smirked cheekily.<br/>
            “Ah, but you owe me one.” Charles winked back and removed his shirt over his head.<br/>
            “Okay.” George shrugged and bit his lip, shuffling slightly to get a better view of an undressing Charles. His cock stirred in his boxers. “You were annoyed tonight,” he smiled. “At those guys.”<br/>
            Charles nodded his head, humoured. “I was.” He threw his shirt at the mostly naked man. “You got jealous, too.”<br/>
<br/>
Once he was completely undressed, his cock semi-hard, he laid on the bed next to George and caught his lips between his own. He still tasted like whiskey and coke. Charles tasted minty, a hint of tobacco still lingering on his breath. George didn’t like how much he loved it on Charles but deepened the kiss to savour it more.</p><p>            “You are going to touch me?” Without waiting for a response, Charles grabbed George’s wrist with the same pressure he had earlier, and guided it to his stomach, and slowly further down until their hands met his cock, much harder now.<br/>
            His cloudy head took a couple of seconds to remember his task. “And you’re sober enough to cum?” He looked directly into Charles’ eyes in the dim light; both their pupils blown: alcohol and sex.<br/>
            Charles nodded in reply, their foreheads touching. “I am too horny not to.”<br/>
<br/>
He wasn’t wrong: George hardly had to spend any time sucking cock before Charles pushed his head down and came in the back of his throat satisfyingly. He guessed it was less than five minutes. He wondered how long the other man had been anticipating it; if he’d jerked himself off to the thought, or if he’d caught himself daydreaming about it, if his favourite memories had been reimagined with his face, his body.<br/>
<br/>
George went to get himself a glass of water, wash his face and brush his teeth ready for sleep, completely ignoring his boner straining against his underwear. When he returned to bed, Charles had put some clean boxers on and held out his arms for him to climb into – a somewhat awkward spoon against the slightly smaller man. He felt Charles settle his head into the contours of his neck, his breath cold but comforting down his back. He laced his fingers into Charles’ on his waist and pulled them round to his front, hugging him in tighter, knowing but not caring that when they woke up in the morning, it would be hot and sweaty, and they’d have to unstick their bodies.<br/>
<br/>
            “Merci, George.” Charles let his eyes shut. “Maybe I’ll let you fuck me soon.”<br/>
            George tried hard to not move but he found it a lot harder to ignore his cock now. There was nothing he could immediately do about it, knowing Charles was on his way to sleep and tangled up in his body. “Fuck you.” He whined and felt Charles grinning into his back in response. “You’re an arse, Charles.”<br/>
            “Oui.” He managed, sleepily, in reply. “Bonne nuit, George.”<br/>
            George sighed, exasperated, frustrated. “Goodnight, Charles.”<br/>
<br/>
When George awoke, Charles had already got up. He wondered how he’d done it without waking him, until he remembered that there had probably been a mad dash to the bathroom to be sick and it had undoubtedly been the spooning equivalent of ripping off a plaster. George didn’t dare to move much, although his headache didn’t seem that bad. He concluded there had been too much drinking in his life.<br/>
<br/>
Charles was sat at the dining table with what looked like a sports drink in his hand.<br/>
<br/>
            “Your head is okay?” He asked George, seemingly no longer bothered by any remnants of his hangover. “I have my own cures.” He shrugged, addressing George’s confused expression. “There’s another one in the fridge.”<br/>
            George took his advice and retrieved the bottle from the fridge. “What is the plan today?” He took a sip of the drink and almost spat it out – it tasted like salty orange juice.<br/>
            “The taste is not for everyone.” Charles laughed. “I booked for us to have lunch in Nice at two.”<br/>
            It sounded suspiciously like a date, but George didn’t mind if Charles didn’t. “Sounds good.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>french:<br/>non, nous n'allons pas - no, we are not going<br/>bonne nuit - goodnight</p><p> </p><p>thank you all for reading :) </p><p>comments and kudos always always always appreciated xo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. against</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>one paragraph is a sex scene, please skip if you don't want to read - towards the end</p><p>hope you're all good (:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Neither man wanted to spend much time alone with their thoughts. For George, it was confusion – the cogs in his brain working overtime to try to figure out how he exactly felt about Charles. And for Charles, frustration – wondering why he always had to be so direct to get George to touch him, and why, when he did, did it feel so <em>exhilarating</em>?<br/>
<br/>
Charles drove, and the lunch was <em>nice</em>, and to George, it <em>really</em> felt like a date; the conversation was light and friendly – they talked about their families a lot, the food was good, as promised by Charles, and they kicked each other flirtily under the table a few times during dessert.<br/>
<br/>
Nobody paid them a minute of attention, other than the waiter, who spoke only to Charles once he realised George had barely a clue what he was saying. It was a relief to both of them.<br/>
<br/>
            “Do you think anyone needs to know?” Charles had shut his eyes, shielding his brain from processing the reaction from George, having somewhat built himself up to bring up the subject of what they should tell people now that they had been on a date. Not a date. Like a <em>date</em>, but… not one.<br/>
            “I’m not sure.” George shook his head. He didn’t know the answer, and he wasn’t sure one pseudo-date warranted telling anyone.<br/>
            Charles nodded – so, he didn’t want to talk about it. “You won’t ignore me at the motorhomes anymore?”<br/>
            “I won’t ignore you at the motorhomes anymore.” He smiled; the kind of smile that told Charles everything was going to be okay, but he wasn’t ready to talk about the implications.<br/>
<br/>
It was rare that Charles felt more mature than any of his peers, but right now, he knew he was guiding George through some kind of path to self-acceptance. He hadn’t even stopped to think about his <em>own</em> self-acceptance – that already was – he’d never needed any help with that. And it wasn’t that he wanted George to have any feelings for him, he just didn’t want to fall in love with the way his hair looked in the sun and the wind, or feeling his knuckles between his fingers, convincing himself that he hadn’t already. But it had been George who he’d wanted to run to the last few times he’d been drunk. And he’d felt so down in the break between races, being miles away, not breathing the same air. He always loved more. He was fed up of loving more.<br/>
<br/>
Charles let George drive the Ferrari back to Monaco, mostly so he could recline in the passenger seat and watch his hands relaxed on the wheel and the concentration wash over his face when Charles forgot to give directions and he desperately tried to read the road signs to figure out the way to Monte Carlo – eventually finding the underground garage of the apartment block. Their hands slipped into each other’s as they got in the lift up to the flat, the way they remained until they got to the right floor, until Charles had to unlock his front door.<br/>
<br/>
It was like George could feel his brain ticking, sending nerves through his body as he stepped over the threshold into the flat. His cock waking up, irritated from the denial the night before. From behind, he wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist and pressed kisses to the back of his neck. He didn’t even consider how out-of-character it was; he was just too tempted after the memories from the night before started flooding back, how Charles disposed of the letchy men without a thought of repercussions. The jealousy he’d felt when someone <em>else</em> was touching Charles, in ways he thought only he himself should be able to.<br/>
<br/>
It took the older man by surprise, too, and he took the first opportunity to twist around, his back leaning now against the wall, letting George kiss the parts of his neck from the front. He was instantly turned on: he wondered what had instigated this, not that he was complaining, and he didn’t wonder anymore when George’s hands trailed up to his shoulders and pushed him against the wall demandingly, one pinning him against it, the other holding the side of his face. They were both out of breath already – pure adrenaline…<br/>
<br/>
            “I want to fuck you.” Charles tried not to sound desperate, but that’s all his body was giving. He could <em>only </em>sound desperate.<br/>
<br/>
George just nodded in reply, his mouth felt physically incapable of forming words, and followed the other man to his bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
Once he’d removed his jeans and boxers, Charles’ hands were on his cock, their lips crashing together in a clumsy rhythm. Charles reached for lube and wasted almost no time prepping George, a hasty exploration for the spot George liked with his fingers before replacing them with his heavily lubed-up cock. He wasn’t sure how enjoyable it would be for the man beneath him, but if his mouth agape and loud moans of Charles’ name were anything to go by, he’d say he could guess pretty well. He struggled to keep his hands anywhere but on George’s hips, pressing his body tight to the bed, and watching as he dripped lube onto his own fingers to play with his cock. Everything about him felt great and he slowed down his thrusts to savour the moments before his climax, partly so he could help George get close, too, and the moment he felt George’s cock pulsate in his hand, he came, trying to ride the waves of George’s orgasm.<br/>
<br/>
George dragged him in close, chest-to-chest, after he pulled out and removed the condom. A rib-crushing embrace to show his gratitude.<br/>
<br/>
They didn’t get to enjoy the post-sex feeling for long though, as then the intercom rang, sending a buzzing noise through the apartment. They tried to ignore it but both of their phones lit up.<br/>
<br/>
            “I knew it.” Lando walked through the front door after being let up, eyes darting to George, sat at the dining table. “You guys are shit at being subtle. Both of you have the <em>worst</em> sex hair.” Neither of them had even looked in a mirror to check if there were any weird things going on with their appearance, and they’d reacted too quickly to assess each other’s state – Charles even had a lovebite on his neck.<br/>
            “It isn’t what it looks like…” George replied, and stopped himself from elaborating when Charles shot him a look. George was fed up with question avoiding. He had enough to do with Charles. “Don’t fucking tell Max. Or anyone.” His voice tapered off. Technically he hadn’t given him anything to tell.<br/>
            “What are you doing here?” Charles sighed at Lando, changing the subject.<br/>
            He sighed, “me and Max had our first proper argument,” his speech had lowered several pitches from his usual voice, “he said I was being overdramatic. That I was looking for an argument.” He laughed to himself, judging his own ridiculousness. “I guess I was, really… but I just wanted him to care.”<br/>
            Charles shut his eyes, Lando was so naïve. “So… you ran away from the argument?”<br/>
            “I didn’t <em>run away</em>…” he began, “but that’s exactly what I did, yeah.”<br/>
            “You left Max at his flat, alone… so he could seethe and get angrier?” George raised an eyebrow.<br/>
            He put his head in his hands, realising his stupid mistake. “Yep. I’m so shit at relationships. I should just stick to driving.”<br/>
            Charles laughed, almost a mocking laugh. “We should all stick to driving.” He sighed, feeling sympathetic. He’d had some mostly functioning relationships and knew he had to help his friend, “text him, tell him you’re okay and you reacted in the wrong way, tell him where you are. The situation is on him then.” George nodded in agreement.<br/>
<br/>
Within ten minutes, Max had called Lando, apologising, agreeing to pick him up.<br/>
<br/>
            “If you get married, you have us to thank for it.” Charles grinned.<br/>
            George tried to stifle a laugh. “And in the future, don’t run away from an argument.” Sound advice.<br/>
            “You two should talk,” Lando offered a supportive smile to the pair as he opened the door to leave, “try it.”<br/>
            “Salut, Lando.” Charles rolled his eyes. He agreed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>woo! i've been writing this for over a month now - if only i could commit to other things like that<br/>happy friday (:</p><p>kudos/comments are always lovely if you want to leave them!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. hop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The two men reclined on the sofa, exhausted from the sex and the unexpected break in the afterglow, George laying between Charles’ legs, and they discussed George’s flight back to the UK (the next morning) and Charles’ flight to Maranello (the next evening), before watching an old football game on the TV, but it had French commentary, so George just picked the side he thought he recognised the most to cheer on silently. He kept biting his fingernails, he was anxious; the realisation that Lando had intruded at the worst possible time and was now equipped with a fact that could affect everything in his life: his career, his relationships, <em>Alex</em>. He felt he had faith in the younger driver to keep quiet – mostly – but he knew that he loved the sound of his own voice much more than he loved keeping a secret. Lando had trusted him. He was owed the same.<br/>
<br/>
Conversely, Charles bit his lip the entire time to stop himself saying something; it was unlike him, usually taking a more stoic position – he knew that they had to discuss everything at some point, and he was <em>desperate to</em>, for his own sanity, but he didn’t want to force the man laid in his arms to talk and risk pushing him away… he’d only just debatably got him. And his brain was just yelling at him to <em>shut up, shut up, shut up</em>. He wasn’t usually the one to treat situations maturely, usually he opted to be either ignorant or childish about them, and he knew that he was feeling this way because it <em>felt like it meant something</em>, and he needed to tell George that, but the man that was half-asleep in between his legs didn’t want to hear it. It was confliction at its cruellest.<br/>
<br/>
            The silence was broken when Charles drifted off and jerked suddenly out of his sleep. “Ohhhh, merde. Sorry. I thought I was falling.” The programme on the telly had finished and they were now watching a completely blank screen.<br/>
<br/>
The movement and apology woke George up and he groaned and stretched the arm he wasn’t leaning on, his outstretched palm eventually making contact with the light stubble on the other man’s face. He kept his hand there, stroking, until Charles grabbed it and kissed his palm, so gently, leaning into it, and he looked up and smiled up at him with big eyes.<br/>
<br/>
            “You’re cute.” George mumbled in a tired voice, not quite fully with it yet; a sleepy thought that slipped out.<br/>
            Charles laughed delicately, as to not dislodge the head laid on his stomach. “From down there? This is an attractive angle?” He asked, whispering.<br/>
            “Every angle.” George’s smile widened even more, and his eyes creased at the sides, like he’d be laughing back if he wasn’t so early in the process of waking up. “Even the weird ones.”<br/>
            Charles raked his hands through George’s still-messy hair, a bit flatter now – it looked much less like he’d just been fucked. “You are very biased.”<br/>
<br/>
They spent the rest of the evening almost exactly like that – drifting in and out of sleep, waking up just to pay each other compliments with barely conscious thoughts, before falling back asleep again. They moved position a few times, Charles’ legs on George’s lap, George snuggled into Charles’ armpit, or the two slouched together after one of them got pins and needles. They both almost forgot where they were, only the contact from one another to concentrate on, because it was the only thing that mattered. Neither of them wanted to stop napping. Neither of them wanted to stop touching. Doing anything to avoid actually talking.<br/>
<br/>
At least, not until George announced he was going for a shower and way-too slowly shed himself from Charles’ hold, savouring every moment he stayed attached. He noticed that with Charles, he hadn’t showered immediately, at the first chance he got, after sex, and for a moment he thought he felt a bit gross for having delayed it for so long this afternoon, cuddling Charles in the meantime instead, but the feeling quickly went when he realised that was the old George trying to sneak in. The melancholy, angsty, frustrated George. He felt less of those things now.<br/>
<br/>
The shower was a little bit colder than he liked, but he didn’t mind because this was the temperature that <em>Charles</em> liked it at, which he knew was stupid, but the water on his body felt like a wave of ecstasy washing over him regardless of the heat.<br/>
<br/>
Meanwhile, in the living room, Charles tried to invent ways they’d discuss what <em>this</em> was, when they eventually got around to it… <em>if</em> they eventually got around to it. He tried playing theoretical situations through his head, but George never reacted the way he wanted him to in his imagination. He tried to think of what to say in French and was translating in his head, to try and choose the perfect words, but nothing seemed to work. It wasn’t as simple as asking him to be a boyfriend, and he wasn’t even sure what he wanted. When he heard the shower stop, he pushed the idea to the back of his brain, shelving it for when he’d figured it out, or until he concluded that he didn’t have to use it.<br/>
<br/>
George re-entered the room, wearing a plain black shirt and trousers, requesting a walk outside to stretch his restless legs, and Charles put on a hat so as not to attract too much attention and they wandered the busy, dusky streets of Monaco, hands grazing past each other’s as they walked a few centimetres too close to each other.<br/>
<br/>
            “You know in Monégasque; Monte Carlo means Mount Charles?” Charles spoke, following a break in proper conversation (besides discussions about where to turn). The silence had been nice, but conversation was better.<br/>
            “Did they name it after you?” George giggled and rolled his eyes, eventually landing on Charles. “Good fact. I’ll think of some about London or Milton Keynes when you visit.”<br/>
            He laughed in reply, knowing full well there weren’t many secrets George could surprise him with about the UK. “Your country is too proud. It can’t compete.” And everything between any of the drivers was always a competition.<br/>
<br/>
By about half six, they sat on a bench fashioned out of old cobble rock, on a less-travelled path, and watched as the sun disappeared into the horizon. Both men were fixated on the reflection dancing in the water and listening to the distant sounds of traffic roar by on the road beneath them. Charles imagined himself falling in love again, exactly like he had so many times, with exes and friends, watching the Monaco sunset. He felt reminiscent at the thought, almost hauntingly so. He shook the thought when George started talking about the kinds of engines that he thought he could hear, because even though he wasn’t being presented with any information he didn’t already know, if the other man was saying it, he <em>needed</em> to hear it. They sat and talked, listening to the sounds of the city below them, for a few hours, until the air temperature started to drop off and the night was no longer mild.<br/>
<br/>
Once back in Charles’ flat, they agreed it was a nice way to spend their last evening together before returning to their regularly scheduled lives, and after both packing their things for their travels the next day, they slept, cuddled into each other.<br/>
<br/>
            “I will miss you.” Charles couldn’t help himself. He was a romantic at heart and had to say it. He’d been trying not to say it for the entire drive to the airport.<br/>
            “You’ll see me in like, ten days.”<em> It was eight days, </em>Charles thought<em>.</em> George placed a hand on his, rested on the bottom of steering wheel, and squeezed tight. “You’ll text me after we had sex this time?”<br/>
            Charles smiled to himself, thinking about how immature he had been, even such a short time ago. “I will text you,” he repeated back.<br/>
<br/>
He did, but it still took him three days. George didn’t mind, though, he was super busy with training and sim days at the factory, and he knew it would be just as easy for him to text, but he trusted that Charles would stick to his promise, when he was ready to.<br/>
<br/>
He’d spent the days with his head in his work, a few 12-hour days at the hands of Mattia and Andrea that left him exhausted, especially as he tried to come up with something funny or charming to text George in most of his spare time throughout the day, which might as well have been a full-time job on its own. Seb had some time off with his family so he wasn’t even there to ground him – usually if Charles was distracted, which happened a lot, he would find some way to bring him back to Earth. He could easily have asked him what to say, no questions asked. In the end, he settled on a simple, but hopefully effective:<br/>
<br/>
<em>            I tolddd you I would text you<br/>
<br/>
</em>As George was eating dinner with his family, his phone vibrated on the table, and he smiled at the message when he glanced at it. Everyone instinctively glared at him, as if requesting an explanation, but he explained his reaction away by claiming it was a joke (the truth – even if a subtle, personal joke) sent to him by Charles (also the truth). He was paranoid that they may have found it a little strange how quickly he excused himself to go home after that though, and at least <em>questioned </em>the ten minutes sat in his car before <em>actually </em>leaving their driveway where he was desperately trying to think of a reply.<br/>
<br/>
They spent the next week or so sending polite messages to each other, checking in on what the other was up to, even though it was usually work or training, because that was kind of their whole lives. Charles even complained that someone from his team had set him up on a blind date that he wasn’t able to say no to, because it was some kind of triple-date and he’d agreed to it <em>weeks ago</em>, but afterwards, he had ended up in his apartment alone that evening and had called George to complain about the overfamiliarity that she’d shown, even when he respectfully tried to make it clear that he wasn’t interested and was purely there to make up numbers. It was the first time they’d called each other all week and both of them considered how nice it was to hear the other’s voice. They were both flying into Portugal around the same time on Thursday morning, and they agreed that at the first chance they both got, they would escape to each other’s rooms.<br/>
<br/>
And so, after the press conference, George sat in his hotel room, slightly annoyed about a question that asked about his contract for the next year, after Claire and Frank’s departure – wondering if the question was fair considering he <em>had </em>a contract. Was there nothing else they’d wanted to ask him? Didn’t they think he was good enough? He recognised that he wasn’t keeping his cool very well and wished he could breathe in the smell of Charles’ aftershave to pacify his mind.<br/>
<br/>
But it was Alex that knocked on the door first, and in some ways, George was relieved. He hadn’t seen and had <em>hardly talked to</em> his best friend since the previous race, and he said hi and pulled him into a tight hug.<br/>
<br/>
They went through the usual social rigmarole, how they’d been, what they’d done, in the couple of weeks between the races, but neither of them had done anything exciting. George had mentioned texting Charles a couple of times, so as to gauge Alex’s reaction and whether he’d heard something from Max that he could have gleaned from Lando, but Alex had barely reacted to anything he’d said, choosing to talk about Lily instead, who had been to visit him for a few days prior to a training camp she was going to somewhere in Europe. George had met Lily quite a few times by now, and he thought she was good for him – smart, witty, unpretentious – all of the things that Alex was, too.<br/>
<br/>
It wasn’t until late in the evening that Charles could peel himself away from other people to go to George’s room, and he texted him before he left to make sure he was still awake. Charles sat at the small table in George’s room, both in old baggy clothes like some kind of pyjama party, and he fiddled with the packets of sugar set out next to a kettle for a while, before being invited to join George in the bed. They talked about how their weeks had been and slowly, eventually, Charles placed his head on George’s shoulder and the anxiety of that first touch was washed away, and they sat and listened to each other breathe, the silence only ever being broken by generic hotel noises – squeaky floorboards, faraway thumps, distant muted voices through several layers of wall. Before long, George felt the weight of the other man on him become heavier and he knew he was almost asleep.<br/>
<br/>
            “Do you want to stay here?” George whispered, barely audible, so Charles could respond only if he was conscious enough – he made some kind of agreeing noise and tried to slip under the sheet on the bed with only half a brain.<br/>
            “Don’t let me sleep in.” Charles requested as George stood to untangle Charles’ legs and get under the cover himself.<br/>
<br/>
It was 8am when the knock on the door woke the two men up.<br/>
<br/>
            “Fuck.” Charles croaked groggily. “Who is that?”<br/>
            “Probably Aleix wondering where I am.” George replied in the same hoarse voice, getting up. “Stay there.” He cracked the door open and Aleix was stood there with a half-worried, half-confused expression on his face.<br/>
            “Can I… come in?” He was mostly confused why George was being so secretive, but the man at the door just shook his head ‘no’. “Practice starts in three hours. You’re going to want to get in the garage soon.”<br/>
            “Sure.” He yawned. “I’ll get ready now.” And shut the door.<br/>
<br/>
He got back into bed and let Charles cuddle into him for another five minutes – ten minutes – <em>no I mean it now Charles</em> minutes. He could see the other man’s phone lighting up as his team tried to reach him to ask where he was, but Charles just flipped his phone over and shut his eyes. Eventually, George pulled himself away and got dressed as Charles watched tiredly.<br/>
<br/>
            “I <em>did</em> miss you.” George commented as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a sock.<br/>
            Charles’ heart skipped a beat and he sat up behind him. “I missed you, too,” he pressed a lazy kiss to the back of George’s neck – he felt a shiver of goosebumps pass through his skin… but his phone buzzed rudely again, “but I need to go to my team before they start searching for me.”<br/>
            “Yes,” George laughed, “you do.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry there hasn't been an update in a minute - it's been a busy busy week!! </p><p>Hope everyone is OK and staying safe - I'm watching testing later :)</p><p> </p><p>&lt;3 kudos and comments are lovely so please leave them if you wish!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. observers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They didn’t manage to speak to each other again that weekend, following their impromptu sleepover – not until after the race. They’d only managed to exchange a few sheepish waves at each other outside their hospitality suites at the track, as promised. Once Charles had excused himself from enough people to get away from his team, he got to George’s hotel room just as he was starting to pack his clothes to leave. There was only a week between races, so everyone’s calendars were pretty tight because in a few days they’d all be getting ready to leave home again.<br/>
<br/>
            “Have you packed?” George asked as Charles leant against the wall near the door. It looked like he wasn’t planning to stay long.<br/>
            Charles shrugged, displaying his unconcern. “Andreas is packing for me. I’m very bad at it. Once I’ve used it, it never fits in the bag again.”<br/>
            George smirked and tapped Charles’ cheek playfully as he sauntered past him into the bathroom to collect together his toiletries. “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, <em>Charlie</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
There it was again – that nickname reserved only for really good friends and family. It made Charles’ brain tingle and he felt a little bit of a blush come to his cheeks, that he hoped went unnoticed. Last time George had used it, he’d been drunk – but he’d just used it like that’s what he called him now. Maybe that was what he called him now.<br/>
<br/>
            Charles could feel himself creating conspiracies in his head and needed to change the subject. “Lando asked me about us,” he began, grabbing George’s attention, not quite changing the subject as much as he’d hoped, “I told him nothing is happening. I think that he trusts me.”<br/>
<br/>
George made an agreeing sound as if he felt some relief, but he wasn’t really sure he did. Would things be easier if Lando… if anyone… knew he and Charles were…well, whatever they were?<br/>
<br/>
            “Well done in the race today, by the way.” He steered the conversation back, so he didn’t have to think about it. “Fourth is a good result.”<br/>
            “Thank you,” Charles replied sincerely, “how was your race?” He felt a little bad that he hadn’t really paid any attention to the classifications once the race was over – everyone, including him, had been so far behind the leading three that nothing really mattered. He and Seb both scored points for the team – that’s what mattered to Ferrari – even if they were already pretty certain the team would finish fifth.<br/>
            “I finished where I started so it could have gone a lot worse.” George’s voice echoed as he checked the bathroom one last time for anything he might have missed.<br/>
<br/>
Charles hadn’t really listened to his answer, but he grabbed George’s elbow as he stepped back into the room and squeezed anxiously, a kind of communication they’d both become used to. George gave him a look of defeat immediately, melting in his touch, and he allowed Charles to lead him to the bed and, as soon as they were both sat down, place small kisses along his jawline. He wished he didn’t have to leave for the airport in half an hour.<br/>
<br/>
George laid with his head on Charles’ stomach, half-panicking about being late for the team exodus to the airport, but also not caring, knowing that they wouldn’t leave without him. He didn’t think there was a better place to be in the world than a post-sex unwinding with Charles.<br/>
<br/>
            “You’re starting to last a bit longer.” George jokily remarked, panting slowly.<br/>
            Charles rolled his eyes, not that George could see. “Fuck off. That one had to be quick.” He exhaled. “My team have been trying to call me for ten minutes though.”<br/>
<br/>
Once they were both back home, Charles texted immediately. Gone were the days of waiting patiently for a wave of courage to hit him before typing out the simplest text message. It wasn’t long before they would see each other again, and the last thing the older man wanted was for anything to be weird, no repeat of the awkward sleepover where the most intimate activity was a kiss to the back of someone’s neck (but <em>god, that was intimate</em>, Charles thought).<br/>
<br/>
It continued after Turkey, too – sending almost, but not quite, flirty text messages to each other, the small smiles on their faces almost undetectable whenever they received a text from the other – which was infrequently, but the texts were informative enough. They saw each other a bit more, too, in the races following Portugal, but tried their hardest to stick to their own beds, Charles still always turning up at George’s door rather than the other way around.<br/>
<br/>
And so that was how George ended up staring himself down on a Monday at almost two in the morning in a steamed-up mirror in the bathroom of his room in a Bahraini hotel when his phone rang – Toto – being offered the Mercedes drive at the weekend… because Lewis had sprained his ankle while running… and there was no chance of it being better so soon.<br/>
<br/>
He left the bathroom, almost dripping wet from his shower, wearing just a towel around his waist, still staring at his phone, questioning if that had just happened. Was he getting sick – was it a fever dream? Maybe jetlag? A migraine?<br/>
<br/>
            “Was that a phone call? At this time?” Charles looked confused, both at the plausibility of George getting a phone call so early in the morning and him being uncharacteristically silent after it.<br/>
            “It was Toto.” He nodded. “Lewis sprained his ankle.” He perched on the side of the bed and slowed his breathing. “I’m driving for Mercedes at the weekend.”<br/>
            “What, like, in practice?” Charles raised an eyebrow. “Who is driving the Williams?”<br/>
            George let out a disbelieving laugh finally and shook his head. “No… I’m driving Lewis’ car.” He rubbed his temples. “I don’t know what to do.”<br/>
            The other man reached his palm out to rest it on George’s still trickling wet back. “You go and you show them what you can do for them.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>...if you can't tell already... race calendar in this is fooked hehe... and i didn't want to write about romain's crash<br/>and no COVID because everyone's had enough of COVID. let's be real - Lewis wouldn't be missing a race with a sprained ankle, ik, ik</p><p> </p><p>thanks for all the comments and kudos i really appreciate them!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. what's more</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            “I barely fit in the fucking thing.” George stroked the back of the other man’s head on his chest, subconsciously pulling on the longer bits on top, which Charles found equally irritating and soothing. “My feet… they are too big. The cut-out for my knuckles… just… it’s not great. It feels weird.”<br/>
            Charles chuckled quietly. “You haven’t always been a Formula One driver, you know? You cannot tell me you have never driven a car you didn’t fit properly.”<br/>
            “I don’t want to complain. I am <em>so </em>grateful for the drive.” He sighed. “I’m just… <em>really</em> knackered.” He yanked a bit too hard on a fingerful of hair and mumbled an apology – he didn’t think he felt anxious, but his body language was saying otherwise.<br/>
            “<em>Je sais</em>.” Charles offered, sympathetically. “Nobody would have said ‘no’ to that car. It’s already won the championship.”<br/>
            “It should be Stoffel’s drive.”<br/>
            “But it isn’t.”<br/>
<br/>
George knew Charles was right – he’d been offered the drive and Williams had agreed to it, so it was rightfully his – but something was making him apprehensive; the pressure to perform, maybe – it didn’t usually matter if he made a few mistakes when he’s at the back – it had been so long since he was in a car that was properly competitive against anybody except his teammate. Maybe the pressure he’d felt so far hadn’t been bad, maybe that was yet to come. He closed his eyes and rested his chin atop Charles’ head before taking a deep, unsteady lungful of air, breathing out the nerves that threatened to make their home in the pit of his stomach.<br/>
<br/>
            After a silent few moments, Charles pushed himself up and pecked a tired George on the lips, a sympathetic goodbye. “It will be okay.”<br/>
<br/>
George simply smiled a defeated smile and sighed in reply, waving wearily as he watched the other man leave. They’d barely got to spend much time together, considering they’d been in Bahrain for two weeks, only a couple of late nights in George’s room where they had been too tired to do anything but simply lay next to each other and talk rubbish.<br/>
<br/>
They didn’t manage to talk (beyond a few polite texts to each other) again until the Sunday – George was busy getting fitted into the car and learning Lewis’ setup as there was too much they wouldn’t be able to change for him for potentially just one race, and Charles was busy with his own team, scheduled down to the minute as per usual. All they shared that morning was a lingering glare at each other from across one of the various suites all of the drivers were ushered through on race day – a glare that to anyone else would look just like two friendly rivals catching each other’s stare, but in it, Charles could tell George was excited, prepared, but also felt like a fish out of fucking water, and all he could offer with the press watching everyone’s every move was the ghost of a smile and a hand through his own hair.<br/>
<br/>
George shifted himself in the misshaped seat, cleared his mind as he stopped second on the grid, behind Valtteri, and prepared himself for the race ahead. Charles could see the back of the Mercedes as he pulled into fourth and chuckled to himself imagining its driver’s concentrated face behind his visor.<br/>
<br/>
And then the race happened. Charles watched as George immediately pulled ahead into first place at turn one, but he barely had time to process it as at turn four, Charles wrecked Max’s and his own car and refused to talk to anyone until he’d got showered and changed to return to the garage, disappointed wholly in himself, especially since he and Max already had a weird, struggling friendship. And he watched the race as Seb struggled massively to get the car to just <em>work</em>, and as…<br/>
<br/>
George would have had the lead twice but a disastrous pit stop and a puncture had ruined everything, but even so he’d shown his grit and managed to pull back some points, his first in two seasons, and the fastest lap.<br/>
<br/>
He got out of the car dejected, mostly exhausted, after radioing his disappointment to the team, and he breathed heavily as the world around him turned to a blur, looking for a space he could sit down and take respite, before settling on a patch of grass, rare to see in Bahrain. He knew it was the picture all of the photographers would want – George Russell fails his first race for Mercedes – but he didn’t care. He needed to feel <em>normal</em>, not like racing driver George Russell, not like struggling backmarker George Russell, just… like none of this mattered. And for a second, he did forget it all, and anxiety flushed away as he imagined just for a moment that nobody cared.<br/>
<br/>
And that evening, after what felt like hundreds of phone calls and messages, that’s how George found himself stood at the door of Charles’ hotel suite for the first time since he and Charles had started - well, whatever they had started - desperately hoping he was in, trying to call his phone as he whacked the door with his knuckles impatiently, not even caring if he was being a nuisance to anybody else on the floor.<br/>
<br/>
He’d been there for five minutes when he heard the lift door open and the floorboards around the corner squeak, hoping, hoping, <em>hoping</em> it was Charles, and he just had to smile and raise his eyebrows in lieu of a ‘hello’ when he realised it was Seb, who must have been staying across from his teammate.<br/>
<br/>
            “George? You’re waiting for Charles? He took the stairs.” Seb gave George a sympathetic smile and gave him a slap on the shoulder after he got his key card from his pocket, almost opening the door before doubling back on himself. “Shit happens, we all have the shit days. You have to be honest with what you are feeling now, it will make you a better man. You took every chance you had today, keep taking the chances.”<br/>
<br/>
George watched, his disappointed expression just barely noticeable now, processing what had just been said as Seb unlocked his door and waved as he disappeared inside. Was he only talking about the race?<br/>
<br/>
            “Eight missed phone calls from George Russell?” Charles kicked the trainer of the man sat at his door with his head in his hands, waving his phone down at him.<br/>
            George looked up between dark eyelashes. “Seb said you were taking the stairs.”<br/>
            “Seb is a liar.” He held his key card to the handle to unlock the door as George stood up and followed him in. “I had to see race control. To apologise, for hitting Checo and ruining Max’s race. And I went to Checo, afterwards.”<br/>
            “Shit, yeah.” George felt slightly guilty for not having thought about anyone’s race but his own. “You didn’t see Max?”<br/>
            “Max didn’t want to see me.” Charles rolled his eyes, but George was stood behind him and he knew he couldn’t see. “I’m sorry about your race.”<br/>
            George sighed so loudly he was sure Seb could hear him. “Shit happens.” He echoed the words from Seb and swung himself onto the bed next to his friend… boyfriend… whatever this was.<br/>
<br/>
Charles pulled George’s head into his chest as he fought back watery eyes for his wasted efforts in qualifying, his mistake crashing into Checo, and the undoing of all of the reparations that had been made between Max and himself over the last couple of years. He’d got himself a few licence points and a grid penalty for the final race of the season to boot, too.<br/>
<br/>
            “You’re an amazing driver.” Charles whispered into George’s hair, trying not to let out any of the emotions he was feeling in his voice. “You showed them that today.”<br/>
<br/>
George drew in his own shaky breath, the sensation of being held by someone whose, in that moment, emotions mirrored his own the most of anyone was bringing back up all of the feelings he’d been trying to suppress for the last few hours, but he couldn’t bring himself to reply. He didn’t even know what he would say to that. He knows he did well with what he had. But he also knows Lewis should have been in the car, and if so, he’d have not asked so many questions and wrecked radio calls. Mercedes would have had their 1-2. But they knew what they were getting into by asking him to drive the car, <em>surely</em>?<br/>
<br/>
            “Why did you come?” Charles questioned after a few minutes of silence, which they had both used to steady their emotions.<br/>
            George tried to bury his head further into the other man’s chest. “I didn’t want to spend all evening moping around.” He laughed to himself, considering the irony of the way they’d both been acting. “And I guess I felt reckless.”<br/>
            “It is reckless to show up to my door?” Charles teased. “I show up to your door a lot. Normally am I the reckless one?”<br/>
            George grinned into Charles’ shirt. “You definitely are. You’re the one that asked to fuck me, you’re the one that came into my room late at night completely drunk and pretty much offered up your body, you’re the one that asked me to change my plans and go to Monaco…”<br/>
            “I get it, I get it.” Charles planted a kiss on the top of George’s head. “But I think it would be really reckless if you fucked me.”<br/>
            “Are you sure this isn’t pity?”<br/>
            “No, I want to see how much you enjoy it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>so sorry it's been a while... my internet went kaputttt &lt;3</p><p>hope everybody is doing well!!!! xoxo</p><p>oof, also - French lesson! - 'je sais' - I know</p><p> </p><p>kudos, comments always appreciated if you would like to leave them :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. yield</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this whole chapter is a sex scene (fully consensual), if you don't want to read that please don't!!! :) thank you</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>George would have been lying if he said he wasn’t nervous, because it was <em>Charles</em>, not just <em>any guy</em>.<br/><br/>            “You’re <em>sure</em> you want me to…?” He asked unsteadily, his stomach flipping over with a weird kind of nerves he was sure he’d never felt before.<br/>            Charles sighed softly to himself. “Don’t make me seduce you, Russell.”<br/><br/>George swallowed back his tongue, almost unable to form a reply, and lifted his head to look up at the other man’s chin. It was slow, and patient, and tense, but eventually, after a lengthy discussion about exactly what Charles was comfortable with, George pushed aside the anxiety.<br/><br/>            “I’ve got some lube in my bathroom, and I’ve… been practicing…” Charles bit his lip, by now he knew how easy it was to make George frustrated. He felt as George shifted his position, undoubtedly making a bit of room for his hand to slide to his own cock.<br/>            “What do you mean you’ve been <em>practicing</em>?” George asked, his voice breathy, sounding nearly seductive. “You’re going to have to show me what that looks like sometime.”<br/>            “I will show you.” Charles sat up slowly from the bed. “But first, I will shower.”<br/><br/>The anticipation was killing George, lazily playing with his cock through his boxers as he waited for Charles to finish the world’s quickest shower – it must have been less than five minutes. Charles knew if he stayed in the shower much longer, he’d be tempted to fist his semi-hard cock and risk getting cum all over the shower wall instead of during sex. He dried his body and hair as much as he could with the fluffy towels and re-entered the bedroom wearing nothing; when George first glimpsed the freshly showered skin, he could have sworn someone would have to hold him back from launching himself to bite at the softest skin if not for an invisible force forbidding him to move before being touched.<br/><br/>            Charles climbed on the bed next to George and practically purred as he palmed his already pretty hard cock through his boxers. “You’re always so happy to see me like this.” He smiled before kissing George’s collarbone.<br/>            George’s brain took a moment to engage, all of his attention drawn to the soft feeling of his boxers against his skin. “Charles, lay down.” He found it a little hard to sound like he was taking charge at all when so much control was held by the other man. Charles laid on his back on the bed, pupils blown looking up at George, who had now stood up to find the best angle. “You’re sure you want to lay like that? You don’t want to be on your hands and knees?” George ran his hand down Charles’ torso, feeling the tense muscles under the silky skin, still just a little bit damp from the shower.<br/>            Charles shook his head. “I want to see your face… to see how much you like it.”<br/>George wasn’t sure if that felt like more or less pressure, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep face or look sexy as he fucked Charles. “If it hurts, or if at any point you want to stop, you’ve got to tell me. I’ll stop straightaway.” He got an eager nod in reply.<br/><br/>George dropped some lube onto his fingers and warmed it between them before his hands were on Charles, erring on the side of caution and using too much rather than not enough.<br/><br/>            “Do you want me to show you how I…?” Charles asked breathily, clearly struggling considerably with the jarring change in the normal dynamics.<br/>            George bit his bottom lip, almost hard enough to break the skin. “I really, really do.”<br/><br/>And he watched as Charles spread his legs almost as wide as they could go and as he stroked his cock with one hand, the other travelled further and further down until he had made contact with the liberal amounts of lube George had applied. He took a sharp intake of breath as he pushed one finger into himself, still not quite used to the new sensation, and George thought he looked beautiful, muscles barely lit by the dim hotel lights, a look of concentration and satisfaction on his face as he arched his back against the mattress – he enjoyed the sight so much that he almost forgot what he was meant to be doing, and by the time he’d remembered, Charles had three fingers inside himself and was stifling back moans.<br/><br/>He let Charles continue stroking his cock as he held a hip to the mattress, but lightly grabbed his hand to instruct him to remove his fingers; he figured he was ready enough by now. He kept pushing his cock forward until the head was fully inside.<br/><br/>            “Fuck,” Charles breathed – it almost sounded like relief. “I have never felt anything like this.”<br/><br/>George stayed super still for a while, partly scared to move in case he did something wrong.<br/><br/>            “You will have to fuck me sometime.” The man underneath him chuckled.<br/>            George laughed back. “I know. It’s stupid; I’m nervous.”<br/><br/>He applied more lube at the part where their bodies met and pushed all the way inside, a moan escaping from Charles’ mouth that he’d never heard before – at least, it sounded more <em>sexual </em>than any moan he’d heard from him before.<br/><br/>            “Shit, did that hurt?” George asked, slowly pulling his cock back before thrusting back in, compelling Charles to make another version of that same sound.<br/>            “No hurt.” He replied, barely having the ability to make a sentence in any language. “Feels really good.”<br/><br/>George thrusted in and out a few more times, increasing the tempo with each one, Charles’ moans sounding <em>sluttier</em> (George couldn’t think of a more fitting word) as he continued, watching Charles stroke his cock faster and faster between their bodies, watching the gratified expression on George’s face.<br/><br/>            “I am going to cum really soon.” George puffed, his senses overwhelmed.<br/>            “Me too.” Charles shut his eyes and concentrated only on George inside him and his hand on his cock, spilling cum all over his stomach within seconds, shortly before George pulled out and came onto a towel, which he then wiped Charles with.<br/><br/>They returned to their previous position, George’s head on Charles’ chest, and basked in the new, different afterglow.<br/><br/>            “I liked that.” Charles said after a while of silence. “George, I love you.”<br/>            George breathed air down Charles’ chest that turned cold. “I love you.”<br/>            “You love me?”<br/>            He nodded.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE - it's not finished yet but just getting that in there</p>
<p>as always, comments/kudos appreciated, love ya!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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